


hurlyburly

by sleepdrunk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blanket Permission, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-10-17 00:08:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20611649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepdrunk/pseuds/sleepdrunk
Summary: “We’d better be more careful.” Crowley kept his voice low. Eyes, everywhere. Hell was bad enough under Beelzebub’s boot heel, but times had changed. He’d stood tall for thousands of years despite cosmic rejection of the highest order, and yet only now was reduced to slinking around in the dark, terrified.Crawley,indeed.Now complete.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GemNovelIdeals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GemNovelIdeals/gifts).

> thank you so much to [robyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes) for running beta and as always to [the beautiful bgos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/beautygraceouterspace) who unfortunately found herself soul bonded to me; i can only hope to repay the favour. all errors are mine.

Crowley loved the rain.

He imagined it a cleansing force. Water, sent from the heavens to the earth to purify. Much different from Holy water, sent by the heavens to __Sanctify_._ Nature was a little more holistic in her approach than God.

At the present moment, Crowley is listening to a torrential downpour from inside a tiny, damp cabin.

“What is it, Angel? Finding the place __spooky__, are we?”

The windows shook, rain bucketing against the cabin walls.

“Oh, stop it.” Aziraphale turned over to face him, sleeping bag rustling as he moved.

“Well?

“Well it’s not __nice__, for starters.”

It seemed that those entities of a demonic persuasion had a rather difficult time readjusting, after being told their plan six millennia in the making had gone down the tubes. What little news Aziraphale and Crowley could get their hands on had indicated that the hierarchies of Hell had splintered once the in-fighting began. Demons decided they could do what they pleased without repercussion, and demonic activity on earth had spiked.

Laying low wasn’t easy. Using magic was risky; performing miracles was completely out of the question. Heaven and Hell were out for blood.

Crowley’s face looked softer in the moonlight, puffy from a long day; his brilliant hair mussed and his golden eyes half-closed. He lay next to Aziraphale, the pair chatting late into the night on an aged mattress on the upper floor of this isolated cabin. He’d shoved the overly-insular sleeping bag down to his upper thigh and covered his chest with an old crocheted afghan. The blanket draped over his lanky form where he lay on his side, outlining the sharp dip from shoulder to waist.

“Only, it’s so new to me. We’re __vulnerable__. I’m cut off from the Host; it’s terrifying! I shouldn’t be out here, playing at being human--”

“Angel. Listen to me. We’re having_ fun._ We aren’t thinking about all that just now,” Crowley returned. He’d love for all of this to go away, but the best he could do at present was to pretend.

He wanted so badly to reach out; to cup the offensively cherubic face in front of him; to selfishly keep it all to himself.

“Yes, but I want to go home,” Aziraphale said. Crowley pointedly did not point out that that place no longer existed. Aziraphale held his flashlight between them, on the spare inch of bare carpeting he’d left between their camping mattresses. “I was promised a seaside holiday. Instead--”

“Instead we’re squatting in the only cabin available, which just happens to be fresh out of linens. Yes.” Crowley cracked a lazy grin. “Cozy, though. Nice of them lend us the camping gear.” _‘___Lend___’ _was a generous term. Crowley may not have been using magic, per se, but he hadn’t forgotten the power of persuasion he had perfected over the years. Neither of them had.

Across from him, Aziraphale snorted, an aborted laugh. Crowley watched his eyes close and something in his chest fluttered.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale said as he shifted a little, getting comfortable. His eyes were almost closed, amused smile spreading upward. “We should try to sleep.”

Crowley reached long delicate fingers over to where the angel held the flashlight, intending to take it. His hand hovered above Aziraphale’s, and for a tense moment, his breath froze in his diaphragm. All he could think about was the heat of the hand below his, imagined curling his fingers around his palm--

_Creak._

They froze. Crowley turned his head toward the stairwell. Aziraphale reached for his hand, holding firm. They sat stock-still in tense silence-– listening.

Had this happened six months prior, perhaps neither of them would have taken any notice. Perhaps Crowley would have straightened his collar and sauntered off to frighten whatever it was that was trying to frighten him. Perhaps Aziraphale would have performed a quick but thorough exorcism and been rid of the problem altogether. However, this was not then. This was now. And powerless and alone, they waited.

Aziraphale sat up on the mattress swiftly and silently, as though he hadn’t been just on the verge of sleep a minute ago. He released Crowley’s hand, leaving it cool and unprotected.

“Is someone up there?” Aziraphale asked, in a whisper rather unbecoming of a former angel, who once stood as tall as the seven heavens.

If the first noise sounded like a pile of heavy books falling off of a table and onto an old dusty floor, then the next one was the first tentative step of someone who had been listening in silence for any reaction to their blunder.

They grabbed what they could and bolted for the Bentley.

* * *

They drove along the silent highway until they found a motel. Crowley parked the bentley and they dashed through the sopping wet parking lot and into the lobby.

After a few minutes of entirely unnecessary bureaucracy, the night manager handed them a key-card. They said their thanks and slunk back out into the night, under the eaves that barely kept the cement dry. Scattered fluorescent lights illuminated their path. They lit up Aziraphale’s tired, pale face; eyes bloodshot at the edges.

Beyond the lights of the motel, it was pitch dark and the gravel in the mostly empty parking lot was black with water.

Crowley couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. On the drive over, he kept nervously looking back along the highway. Every set of headlights behind them had felt like a tail; and it had seemed the clerk’s ears had been out on stalks as he dialled the courtesy phone in the lobby.

Their room was on the second level, up a flight of barren metal stairs. Crowley kept an eye out while Aziraphale fiddled with the key card. He leaned against the stucco, his slender back hunched, hands in his pockets. His eyes darted back and forth, scanning the darkness.

“We’d better be more careful.” Crowley kept his voice low. Eyes, everywhere. Hell was bad enough under Beelzebub’s boot heel, but times had changed. He’d stood tall for thousands of years despite cosmic rejection of the highest order, and yet only now was reduced to slinking around in the dark, terrified.

__Crawley___,_ indeed.

Once inside, Crowley slammed the door shut, and locked the bolt and chain. Aziraphale turned on the light switch. He took out a penknife and carved a tiny sigil into the doorframe. It wouldn’t do a thing.

The angel breathed slowly, like he was counting out his breaths, probably in an attempt to calm down. Crowley took his glasses off and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“There was someone watching us on the road,” Crowley said.

"I'm sure it was just a drifter, my dear," Aziraphale said. It sounded like he was trying to reassure himself as much as Crowley.

Crowley swallowed. "Obviously."

"But, you know, since we're . . . vulnerable right now, it only makes sense to be better safe than sorry." Aziraphale said. He gave the room a cursory check; behind the shower curtain in the bathroom, in the closet. He knelt down gingerly and peered under the bed. He then checked the windows on the wall opposite the door.

"Yeah, yeah."

They stood there next to the door in tense silence for several more seconds.

“I need a shower," Crowley said.

“Just the thing.” Aziraphale smiled, his cheeks full and eyes soft. He was trying to sound reassuring, but Crowley knew better. He heard it often when Aziraphale was hiding his nerves.

Neither of them moved.

"Listen --" Crowley said abruptly after several more awkward seconds of silence, "--you wouldn't by chance . . . " he trailed off.

Aziraphale looked at him questioningly. "Wouldn't what, my dear?" he said, when Crowley didn't continue.

"Wouldn't mind… Forget it, it’s a ridiculous suggestion."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it's fine," Aziraphale said.

"Fuck it. Would you stay here? While I shower?"

Aziraphale laughed, a sound like relief.

“Of course.”

“Good. I thought, ah--”

“What?”

“That you’d think I was being silly”

“Oh! _No_, Crowley, come now.” He stepped into Crowley’s space, like he didn’t even notice himself doing it “We might argue, but--” Crowley stared at him, frozen. “We _really did _hear something. I would never mock you for-- _well._”

Crowley rolled his eyes. The gesture fell flat -- soft, instead. Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder, fingers brushing the hem of Crowley’s sleeve.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, but didn’t move.

Aziraphale gave him an exaggerated wink. His hand stayed where it was for a long moment, as though turning away were difficult.

“Right,” he said, finally.

“Right,” returned Crowley. He turned and went into the bathroom.

He turned on the shower. He cursed. The water was frigid, until it was searing. He relished in the hot water sputtering out onto his skin before the pressure -- too low, of course -- evened out. He soaked his hair, distributing the water with his fingers as best he could without shampoo. A package of new soap sat wrapped in wax paper on one of the plastic shelves set into the cheap one-piece shower unit. He ripped off the packaging and washed his arms, frantically chasing the gooseflesh away. Something stung. He hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a sore patch of skin on his back just under his rib cage.

He shut the water off, hoping he’d remembered his lotion, but his bag was in the room.

"Aziraphale?"

“Hm?”

Crowley could hear his exhaustion, just in that short sound -- coming from the doorway, a little low, too. Aziraphale must have been sitting on the floor, waiting. Crowley's breath trembled. He paused his cursory towel-dry.

“Sec--" His limbs felt heavy. He pulled his trousers on.

There was a muffled response, kindly dismissing Crowley's need to explain himself.

When Crowley emerged, he found Aziraphale almost asleep, looking up at him. Aziraphale made a funny face as he roused -- cocked eyebrows and a lopsided grin. It was just like him to break the tension, usually when Crowley felt embarrassed, or when he seemed a little jumpy.

Crowley felt his throat tighten.

He helped Aziraphale to his feet. A retort died in his throat as they came face to face. It was unfair that the soft, overwhelming eye contact they shared meant that Crowley had to crook his neck and look down. Unfair that a strong, fleshy hand gripped his elbow gently.

“Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“No, I--” Crowley backed up and leaned against the wall. He scanned Aziraphale's eyes, expecting something-- but not this. He shivered. Aziraphale put a hand on his bloodless cheek and swept a thumb over the fragile skin underneath unfocused snake eyes.

Blinking, Crowley turned his head slowly. He took Aziraphale’s wrist in his hand and closed his eyes and kissed his palm.

Six thousand years had passed. Immortality, it seemed, had stood in the way of one simple gesture. Now all that was left was a crackling static between them.

Aziraphale leaned in and kissed Crowley on the lips.

A thumb found its way into his belt loop. Knuckles brushed the harsh ridges of the cheap wallpaper on which Crowley’s belt rested. Fingers- still freezing to the touch- brushed against the plump skin above his trousers.

Crowley jerked.

"Sorry" Aziraphale said against his mouth, sliding the hand away. Crowley huffed a breath and shook his head slowly, their mouths chasing one another, noses pressed together-- but the angel’s was disconcertingly cold.

"No," Crowley's own voice surprised him. "Heavens, you're freezing."

Crowley's heart pounded. He had no idea what to do with himself-- what to say, how to move--

He rested his hands on Aziraphale's rib cage, sliding up under his tee.

“Do you want to shower?” He wouldn’t admit to worrying, but his face probably betrayed him.

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss, hand cradling Crowley’s skull as they eased back against the wall. Crowley groaned into it-- opening for whatever Aziraphale was seeking-- and he tilted his head back. There was a thigh; slotted in between Crowley’s legs, splayed wide for balance. He rubbed what warmth he could into bony ribs and Aziraphale was cold, but some other energy drove the tremor under his skin. Kisses, peppered across Crowley’s jaw; interspersed with a more intimate claiming of his mouth.

Through half-lidded eyes, Crowley looked at the angel, resting his forehead against his. Aziraphale gulped and took a shaky, steadying breath.

“Crowley. I, uh--” a hum, and a warm exhale through his nostrils. Crowley held him steady. “I didn’t-- plan. On doing that, I mean. Not now, at least--”

“No, don’t-- Aziraphale, it’s okay.”

“I’ll go--”

“Don’t be stupid.” His throat was tight and his breathing too shallow. “Besides, then how would you warm up? 

Outside, it was silent, except for the distant sound of cars on the highway-- thick, muffled; like the rain turning to wet snow.

Aziraphale smiled. “You sure this isn’t-- a tad strange? I feel strange. I’ve gone and made it strange. Look at me, carrying on--”

“Of course it’s strange.” Crowley fixed his gaze on the face before him-- Aziraphale looked sad. Hopeful. “__Strange__ sits squarely in my duty roster.”

Aziraphale smiled.

They kissed again and this time it was slow, the wide hands of an angel splayed over the skin on Crowley’s middle back; over the sore patch of skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He liked life away from Heaven._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short, i will try and have another uploaded tonight
> 
> see end notes for possible minor trigger

The odd thing about inhabiting human form, Aziraphale thought as he sat against the wall with his hands pressed against his eyes firmly, was experiencing the various-- if rare-- ailments it was prone to.

He'd not had much experience with it, overall, and was typically immune to such afflictions of the flesh.

This however, was something with which he had become all too familiar. It had been coming on ever since he had first denied the host; the hum of power waning as the grip of pain tightened.

All he could do was ignore it.

He liked life away from Heaven. It was hard, and he had no sense of security, but he was free.

A part of him shrieked at him with concrete fears: the need to keep themselves alive; acquire earthly goods and shelter. A Heaven that might regroup at any moment and shatter his new reality. This new, all-consuming pain. Sleeping in new places.

His mind picked up these realistic fears and gave them form. Made them feel _real. Unavoidable._

The rising horror of a spine that felt like sheetrock-- under an unrelenting sun, it would burn to touch.

Panic was always creative. It overtook his logical fears, and everything he knew that might soothe him.

His lungs pulled in faster, breaths like whip-cracks. Fast. Shallow.

_Ah! There._

The pull of aching connective tissue, of ligaments and tendons hauling his ribs askew. He could feel his ankles as though they were shackled from the inside, and his neck, and his eyes; like they were filled with sand.

He tried to come back to reality.

What had he done to himself? He had been alright. He had kept himself busy. The whole week. And now this _horrible _\-- shut up. Okay, He had to think. Had he eaten something strange? Sat or slept differently somehow? _It was always worse at night, and he could feel it coming on like a steam engine._

No. Think.

There had to be a painkiller or two in his pocket which would do practically nothing to help. He wasn’t certain they did anything for the typical humans, let alone powerless angels. If he took a handful of pills and moved slowly until nightfall, Crowley wouldn’t ask questions. They could always head into the tiny town for a few minutes and he could pick up _something. _Alcohol, maybe.

Aziraphale leaned against a rusty railing on the second story of the motel around the corner from their room, looking out over the pool. It was covered for the winter, and a layer of wet snow had begun to collect on top of it. His jacket pulled on his sore ribs. The pre-dawn air was refreshing out here, winter’s bitter edge trailing along with it.

Soft footsteps approached and Crowley settled lightly beside him, arm pressed up against his. Closer than they might have before; warm and reassuring.

“Hullo,” Crowley said softly. "Wondered where you'd got to."

Aziraphale hung his head. He was distantly aware that coming out here had been reckless, but the cool air called to him; cooled his head.

“You’re alright?” Crowley asked. Polite. Respectful and distant, thought Aziraphale. Always so bloody _nice_. Heaven had lied to Aziraphale, who had in turn lied to Crowley, this whole time. A Heavenly Host full of self-righteous _arseholes, _and the only being dumb enough to care about him was a demon who was now pussy-footing around him like a formerly 500-foot angel was a frightened bird. One last breath to try and reset his _stupid useless body-- _Stop.

One last breath, and Aziraphale calmed himself. He straightened up and lowered his hands, turning gingerly to face Crowley.

“Yes. Sorry. Bit of a-- I think I pulled something.” He tried a smile, but he was sure it was sort of lopsided and goofy looking. It didn’t help that he had to turn from the hip-- his neck wasn’t cooperating, and he winced at the movement of his ribs. “_Bloody_ body--"

“Oof.” Crowley winced in sympathy. Of course he did. Why couldn’t Aziraphale be around people he liked when he felt normal? Why-- “I’ve got, erm--” Crowley continued, completely oblivious to Aziraphale’s pathetic little internal monologue. “...Pills and things. Drug store wotsits--”

“What else have you got in that carpet bag, nanny?”

Crowley erupted in surprised laughter. “Fair. I think there’s a can of tuna and a sewing kit in there so, fair.”

_Christ_, his laugh was contagious.

It was over for Aziraphale before he started. The slightest tremor in his diaphragm, and Aziraphale had to stifle a pained whine. He didn’t do very well.

Crowley mumbled something unintelligible even to himself, and got up. He returned not a minute later with two bottles of over-the-counter pills wedged in between his fingers, and a water bottle.

Aziraphale didn’t speak, just accepted the water and took the pills. Tipping his head back was not really an option, so he swung the bottle up and sort of awkwardly choked the capsules down. He and Crowley sat in silence for a moment after the clink of the metal bottle rang out. He could feel Crowley’s concern like waves of creeping _earnestness _. The cold was creeping up the _superior ramus of the ischium and into his spine and what if he froze? If he froze would he shatter? Rigid bone first, followed by muscles turned to ice--_

_Remember your breathing._

“You’re certain you can sleep on the floor tonight?”

Aziraphale remembered to breathe through his nose, and if he did so slowly enough, it almost felt like his insides were actually relaxing.

“Don’t worry.”

Listening to Crowley’s voice helped. The presence of someone resembling a _friend_ helped.

Stretches helped, and the pills-- more of them-- helped, and for some reason laying on a hard floor flat on his back with a bolster under his knees and head-- helped. He’d do that if he could get Crowley to leave for a quarter of an hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw overuse of OTC pain meds but he's probably fine right


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I can see it sitting there, lurking; waiting to pounce, and once you’re gone, what will become of him--”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gets a little catholic there for a sec. i apologize, but today is holyrood.

“Forgot something.”

Early morning.

Across the highway from the motel was nothing but grassy fields, made pastel with the cold snow and dew. There was a touch of fog low to the ground, and the first rays of sunlight streamed misty pink everywhere. The walk to the parking lot was a short one. Down the aging stairs, some loose gravel crunching underfoot, then frosty pavement. The Bentley was there, the only car in the lot. Ice crystals graced her sleek body, glittering. Aziraphale had taken the keys from Crowley with a chaste, shy kiss and they now jangled in his hands.

He reached out to unlock the driver’s side door.

As if a circuit had gone, the nascent daylight flickered for a moment and then went out, leaving the parking lot in darkness under a blanket of stars.

He blinked. Still night. He blinked again. It was not an effective strategy.

_“Aziraphale-- oh, I’m sorry.” _A disembodied voice rang out, echoing. Rattling around in Aziraphale’s head. “_Did I startle you?” _ The voice snarled the false nicety.

“Crowley? This had better not--” Who was he kidding? It wasn’t Crowley. “Who is there? Tell me, right now.”

Was he hallucinating, perhaps? Aziraphale looked at his hands, back and front. All there. Everything was as it should be; the motel behind him, car in front, and nothing but fields and highway all around. Except it was a silent, shimmering night lit only by stars and an odd purple cast. Nobody had ever hallucinated from paracetamol, had they? Perhaps angel metabolism was different, but surely it couldn’t be _this_ different. Had Crowley stashed psilocybin in his pill bottles for some reason? But that didn’t make any sense--

Curses. Aziraphale clutched the car keys in his palm, each key sticking out from between his fingers in a pathetic attempt at a weapon.

_“I couldn’t help but notice,” _said the voice. She inhaled, raspy and tight and lustful, and Aziraphale could swear the air was pulled from his lungs. _“--That you’re missing something. Something big, and it’s--” she inhaled again “--ahhh. It’s going to consume you, Aziraphale.”_

“Crowley?” He called out, timidly at first, eyes darting around for the source of the voice. He shouted for his friend again. Nothing. He was completely alone.

The voice laughed-- peals of laughter with a steel blade.

_“I can help you, baby.”_

“Bugger off,” he said to the parking lot. “_Oh my”, _he thought. “_Oh dear.” _

It felt as though the very atmosphere around him was angry.

He must be high as a kite.

“Th-- this is is simply an hallucination.” Aziraphale stammered. Crowley wouldn’t pull something… no. “Perish the thought,” he muttered under his breath. But then again, his best friend _was_ a demon after all... Maybe Crowley _had_ drugged him. He hadn’t been dragged to hell-- that was rather a different process, after all.

_“You’re not in hell, but soon-- you might as well be.” _He swore he could feel the demon’s lips against his ear._ “I can feel the storm coming-- the one inside of you. You deny it, every single day, but you know what I’m talking about. This is a better deal than I’ve ever offered anyone. This body will fail you._

_“All of these little aches and pains that aren’t so little? You know what’s coming, but not better than I do. I’ve watched their suffering for years, these humans. I can see it all-- the other stuff you haven’t thought about yet. I can see inside your borrowed genetic makeup, Aziraphale._

_“I can see it sitting there, lurking; waiting to pounce, and once you’re gone, what will become of him--”_

Aziraphale turned around to back toward the foyer, but as soon as he took one step, he was stopped short. It felt as though he were walking into a wall of fire, but there was nothing there. Just darkness and linoleum.

Well. Aziraphale rather drew the line at being trapped-- by a product of his mind or for any other reason.

He took a deep breath. He was ignoring her-- no, he was ignoring an idiotic hallucination.

_“-- your little friend. Oh, yes, Aziraphale, I’ve seen him, too. Maybe you’re lucky that I pounced first, baby boy,”_ she rambled on, switching from ear to ear, freezing breath making him shiver._ “Just say the word, and I can take the pain away.” _

He stood and swallowed and grounded himself and refused to acknowledge her directly, in his own head or out loud. This was not happening.

“At the risk of sounding like I’ve truly lost it,” he said; mostly to himself. He took another breath and closed his eyes.

“_Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God.”_

The heat grew. Aziraphale ignored it.

“Tut tut,” she chided, but her voice sounded on edge and it shed the pretense of a human woman, sounding more like metal scraping metal hard enough to shave off curls and slivers.

It was apparent that the demon was in pain from the noise. A low rumble at first. Then a scream like a roar rushed through his ears and set every nerve on edge.

_“I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea--”_

The screaming grew in intensity and he felt like his very being was being shaken--

_“I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” _Again. Dammit, again. “ _Fear thou not; for I am with thee--”_

The pain returned with a vengeance. Aziraphale’s spine jerked him forward into a twisted hunch, the only position that didn’t sear him through with agony. He was distantly aware that he was crying out, trying his hardest not to move in the slightest.

_“Crowley! Crowley, help me!"_

The world shook, and he was in daylight again, crouched on the tarmac.

* * *

It had been nice. It was strange, how friendships went.

He stood. He collected the missing item-- a silver cross on a chain-- from the car. He brushed himself off, returned to the motel room, and said nothing.

Knowing a person for a long time always seems like it should follow a predictable trajectory, but it felt like the best relationships never did. Polite should be followed by awkward familiarity. This one had-- _had _\--been different. He used to associate that buzzing uncertainty with those relationships that ended up really meaning something. This was unexpectedly soft, like buttercream snow.

Aziraphale stared straight ahead of him down the road. Crowley’s smile kept making micro-turns to look at him, careful not to take his eye off the slowly winding road.

“Angel, I don’t believe that’s just a pulled muscle,” he said. “I’m stuck inside this old clunker too you know.”

He should’ve seen this coming. It was over. Nothing was ever going to be _normal. _For so long, he’d harboured a pipe dream of settling down with Crowley. Or near him. Anything.

“I’ll be fine.”

He couldn’t burden Crowley. An eternity of observing human beings had shown him how uncomfortable people could be when faced with another’s weakness-- not to mention angels. At first, they’d be shocked or maybe even sympathetic in a detached sort of way. Soon, it would get old and they’d find you irritating or a mood killer and they’d go. They always did.

“Yes,” his voice came out quiet and alien, nothing like the _everything-is-normal _confidence he’d been shooting for. “Yes. I’m sorry, Crowley. The running, this body…”

“If your body needs-- if it’s, you know... failing. Well, we’ve got to go and do something about it. You’re far more important--”

Those platitudes were almost enough to fill his chest with hope, but he knew better.

“No, it’s--” Oh, why couldn’t he just get this _out? _“It’s--” maybe he could just shut up, brush it off, and then send Crowley a telegram. “It’s tedious.” He studied his hands and picked at his peeling cuticles.

“As a former employee of Hell, I’m rather used to _tedious._” His smile was bright in Aziraphale’s peripheral vision. Unacknowledged, the smile faded. “Remember, it’s our side now.”

Our side. Aziraphale couldn’t help the slight smile the words produced, despite everything-- but it was bittersweet. This running, hiding together from their own kind, only the two of them against the world, and relying entirely on one another? And with Aziraphale’s vessel failing him…

Grace had been replaced with decrepity; joy in creation, with dread.


	4. Chapter 4

Somewhere, anywhere. All Aziraphale wanted to do was drive. It became a ritual. They had to run anyway. They could never stop. As far as they could; down back roads, stopping in small towns at random. Staying overnight if they had to, sleeping in the car if they had to; in the cheapest motels and least-checked overnight camping spots. 

Aziraphale seemed fine, physically; there had been no repeats of that awful night’s end. The one time Crowley mentioned it, Aziraphale smiled and brushed it off as he cheerily poured himself a cup of coffee, face bright despite the bags under his eyes and grey toque pulled down under his hood; hands in fingerless gloves despite the warm spring weather.

He was always cold and stiff looking, but seemed driven by a mission.

The warmth between them was present as always. Still, hands brushed each other during late nights on dark highways or fumbling for the flashlight if they heard a sound. They’d begun to weave a cocoon made for two all on their own, and Crowley gleefully climbed into it, week after week, just for a taste of a shared life. Yet now, those moments seemed to sting his friend-- like he was looking at a matchstick and it was the last thing that might warm him up, but it would burn him alive, in the end.

Crowley stayed, and he went on strange, exhausting road trips, and did his best to keep up.

* * *

“Got you a surprise, Angel ” 

“What? Why?”

“That’s your response?” Crowley quipped, eyes sparkling. “Because I wanted to.

“Oh. Alright. What’s the surprise?”

Crowley’s grin widened. “We’re going somewhere nice, for once.”

“I booked us a room at a nice little hotel. I’d bet they even serve tea with tangy lemon tarts and things. But best of all is that they’ve got proper beds.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale kissed him again. “Thank you. From my stupid, possibly quasi-sentient spine and I both-- thank you.”

“They, ah-- it was on short notice though; and all they had left was a queen suite.”

“It’s fine.” One stride and Aziraphale deaked around Crowley and into their room. He shrugged, turned on the bathroom light, and took his shoes off.

“I didn’t want to assume--”

“You didn’t. Or, at least you assumed correctly.”

Rather than coherent speech, Crowley made a sort of squeak.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen, my dear-- but I do know that I want to be with you. Whatever that entails.”

Taking in his arms, Crowley kissed his temple and breathed in his unruly hair.

“I’d like to see you get proper help, if you need it.” It was the third time he’d asked and the third time he’d received no reply. This time, he got a chestful of heavy, soft angel forehead.

* * *

The next morning, Aziraphale rolled over in bed to squint a bleary eye at his phone. He felt the heavy weight of an arm at his waist, and sighed. Crowley was here, and warm, and right there; breath tickling his back. 

3:30 AM. He let himself sink back into the mattress.

Crowley kissed his skin without bothering to move much else. A wide hand spread out over his lower belly, possessive and warm. Their bed smelled of sex and skin in day old sheets, but the air was fresh.

Aziraphale fell asleep.

* * *

A seaside hotel out of season. The ballroom was closed, but nobody noticed them slip past the velvet ropes.

_“Aziraphale.”_

_“Mmm-?"_

_“Dance with me?”_

_Crowley’s hand outstretched. Unearthly golden eyes raised to look at Aziraphale, imploring him to step forward._

_Ballroom lighting looked good on his face; angular features at odds with soft flesh and curves-- his lips and eyes. _

_“Wouldn’t have thought you knew how to waltz.”_

_They floated in silence over the century-old herringbone parquet. The only lights were from dimmed lights on the stage, velvet curtains reflecting a soft red glow. Aziraphale took the proffered hand in his and made a small show of kissing the back of it. Crowley cracked a smile, so Aziraphale met his eyes through his eyelashes before he straightened up and arranged their limbs for the walz._

_“You know how to dance.” Aziraphale said against Crowley's hair. _

_They danced slowly around the floor to the sound of the silent hall, the occasional squeak of a shoe. A cheek-to-cheek was attempted. Stubble and air-chilled skin grazed the top of Aziraphale’s ear and his temple. _

_Slow dancing was dangerous. Slow dancing led to feelings. _

_"Leave room for the Holy Ghost." Crowley’s voice was muffled by Aziraphale’s sweatshirt and vibrated through his chest. Then he was laughing and leaning heavily, fingers running through the hair on the nape of Aziraphale’s neck._

_ Aziraphale buried his face in the crook of Crowley's neck and laughed against dark hair. "No. Do not bring that up, I swear--"_

_A few more sways and laughter. Crowley shifted and looked up at Aziraphale. He took his face in his hands and kissed him._

* * *

In the morning, they drove away again.

_“Don't--”_

The shout startled Crowley and he fought to keep the car on the road. 

_“Don’t you dare touch him!”_

“Jesus Christ--” he steadied himself. He could hear his heartbeat hammering against his sternum and his tongue tasted like blood. “Nightmare?”

Cars whizzed past them in the opposite direction, white headlights against a backdrop of stars emerging from a purple sky. The valley below was beautiful in the evening light, but he couldn't see it. His knuckles were white on the wheel and all he could do was calm down for the curve ahead.

* * *

_“...cultures across the globe share similar myths. An energy; a possessing force-- a single-minded entity, able to control and use a human being as its own tool. From the _Wendigo _in Algonquin-Great lakes tribes, Roman Catholic demonic possessions… tonight, we’re talking about the ubiquity of evil spirits in myth and legend. Today with me is… _”

Crowley sat cross legged in the dark on the bare wooden floor. He stared at the portable radio, yellow eyes blown wide; elliptical pupil blown to near-round. 

Subdued laughter from the various academics drifted across the room. Something was amusing; in a detached-but-not-admitting-to-fascination sort of way.

“...Yes, Freud might call it an animus _, that’s right. We have modern analyses of what these disturbances might be, but they all bare at least some similarity-- eerily-- to our anci--”_

“What’s that? Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. No matter how gingerly he approached, Crowley still startled.

He stared up at Aziraphale, wordless for a solid minute.

“I was trying to listen to the bloody Archers, and--”

“What? It’s stuck?” Aziraphale took a swig from his coffee mug and leaned against the door.

“Angel. Quiet…”_ Shit._ He thought he’d never have to deal with this again; being rung up by Satan’s little helpers in the middle of a relaxing programme.

The radio went to static.. Aziraphale winced at the noise.

_“SHH-CKK-SHH-CKK-SHH-SHH-CHHK- en….joy your free trial period...SHH CKK”_

Crowley whispered, barely audible above the din. “Aziraphale?”

_“SHH-- CKK-- ...y has concluded. That’s it f-- CHKK-- CHKKK--_ _...for you-- YOUNG MAN! THERE'S N-- SHH-- CKK-- SHH-- that’s right, in just _one week, _folks, we’re gonna see some drastic changes. After that nice, long, calm stretch, it’s gonna get _hot, hot, hot! _SHH-- CKK--”_

Now, it was Aziraphale’s turn to stare.

It dawned on Crowley: this phone call wasn’t for him. It was for the angel.

_“SHH-- CKK-- Does...CHKK... he know?”_

The radio sputtered and died, and everything went silent.

* * *

They stood in silence.

“Holy sh--” he hissed out in a whisper. “What the fuck is going on? That was--” It sounded like a demon; how they’d used to call him through whatever media was around, but it was weaker.

“Crowley, can we go--” he gripped Crowley’s bicep and scanned the room with his eyes, whispering.

“Tell me what in cursed Himmel is going on, right now. ” He still kept his voice low, but it was drenched in rage. “Aziraphale. Now.”

Aziraphale couldn’t make himself answer.

“What are you running from?”

No answer. A cold breeze blew through the room from no discernable source. Aziraphale trembled. His eyes began to cloud with tears.

“I’ve only got a week,” he replied at last, his throat tight.

Crowley looked as though he’d been slapped.

“Damn you,” he said, shaking his head; his lips tightening at the corners and squeezing his words. “Damn you. All you have to do is tell me what’s going on, but-- I-- I don't know what to do.”

“You, I said.--”

“No.”

“Crowley.”

“Fuck off. You've done nothing but refuse to get actual help. Avoiding your entire life for the past few months--”

“Crowley. I told you-- _Nothing?_ I didn’t know what was going on. _I _didn’t--”

“No, God damn you.” Crowley was shaking with cold and rage and fear; arms folded over his chest, hands clutching and rubbing at his forearms. “I don't know if you're messing with head, or if something really is coming to kill us.”

Aziraphale extended a hand to try and still Crowley and hold his attention.

“Don’t--” he shook and glowered “--Don’t touch me.”

“Church.”

“What?”

“ Queen of Peace. Church. We passed it when we drove through town. Holy water.”

“So it is a demon, then.”

“I suspect so.”

* * *

The church was empty and dark. Aziraphale jimmied the lock. Crowley stood well back.

“Wait a Hadesforsaken minute. What did the demon offer you?"

“An end to my pain.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The wind picked up outside. The branch of a fir tapped a stained-glass window._
> 
> _“You were still fucking lying to me,” Crowley says. “You’re still running.”_

The ground should sting and burn his feet, but it doesn’t. A fluttering bird of hope in his chest asks if maybe he’s Forgiven , but he knows he isn’t.

Crowley sat in a pew at the front of the church, head in his hands. His elbows dug into the flesh of his thighs and he jerked awkwardly when he began to fall asleep and the pressure shifted from atop his femur and into fat and muscle.

The church smelled like nothing, but his slacks smelled a bit like mildew and dried mud.

Aziraphale swallowed. Even from where Crowley was sitting, his throat sounded dry and sore. 

“How could an _angel_ become possessed?” As ever, Aziraphale asked when there was no-one to answer.

This church was all dark wood inside; the huge beams soft and rough. Voices from the pews wouldn’t resonate much. He scrubbed his face and smiled, despite himself and sat up, palms on his knees. He stared into the dim space in front of him; his eyes raw like his chest.

Crowley sighed. He was too tired to be angry. Aziraphale laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. One part of him wanted to violently shake it off. The rest of him was just cold.

“Fuck. I don’t know. I thought you were just lying to me, about something big. Something Heaven-y. Maybe. It’s-- Hrm. We’re so good, and then so_ fucking_ _god_awful. I thought, ‘He’s gonna bump me off-- _for the Lord_’ or something. Maybe the stuffed-suit-shitpocalypse was back on and I didn’t know. Or maybe. Like, maybe you got real used to being human and decided the real fun of the ol’ flesh was murdering. Oh no,_ ‘I’ve hooked up with a wanna-be serial killer and he’s just building up the courage to start a hand collection--’_”

Aziraphale bust out laughing. His eyes disappeared into crescents and he clamped his hand over his mouth, doubling over and looking up at Crowley. 

“Ha-- fuck, sorry,” Crowley shook his head but the laugh was fucking contagious. “I didn’t-- All things that are unholy, can you breathe?”

“Christ. Crowley. What a thought.”

“Nah. Always knew you were soft. Even as one of God’s mightiest twats...”

“Ok-- good.” Aziraphale looked serious now, looking down at his hands. A giggle managed to re-erupt, but it drifted away into the corners of his eyes.

The wind picked up outside. The branch of a fir tapped a stained-glass window.

“You were still fucking lying to me,” Crowley says. “You’re still running.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“W-- I probably shouldn’t ask.”

“Had you second guessed yourself like that several millenia ago, we could have avoided a whole host of trouble--”

“Har har.”

“Bad timing. Sorry. Ask away.”

“You-- when we. _Hrm._ At the motor lodge and such.”

“Crowley, really. All this time luring the wayward soul, and you blush at the thought of fornication--”

_“Forni--_ bleaugh.”

“Well what do you want me to call it? Love making?” It was Aziraphale’s turn to blush at his flippant word choice. 

His face darkening, Crowley cast his eyes down. “Yes. You sure you didn’t. Erm. Lie back and think of Eden? Let the demon have its fun? It _was_ you-- and I needn’t feel such a sleeveen?”

“It certainly was me.”

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder and turned toward him, posture open. Finally, he coaxed Crowley’s eyes to his own. Taking his chin gently with his free hand, he leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips.

“I should have gone for it,” Crowley said, barely breaking the kiss. His eyes stayed half-closed, breathing measured. “In Rome. Hell, in _Fife._ In fucking Soho in a filthy alleyway I should have gone for it, I--”

His breath tickled Aziraphale’s unshaven cheek. He kissed Crowley again and again; rapidfire. He played with what strands of hair at his temples he could get his hands on.

“I’m still here, my dear. _Go for it_ now.” Aziraphale ducked his head down so he could meet Crowley’s eyes, and wiggled his eyebrows.

Crowley’s smile threatened to eclipse his face. It already exposed all of his white teeth, and he was desperate to keep quiet. His eyes were glued to Aziraphale. “No wonder the demon went for you. Temptation to a tempter--”

A leaden weight settled itself on Aziraphale’s conscious. The air around them stilled. Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand on the bench without looking.

“What is it?”

“I’ve got to tell you.”

Rage or panic. It was hard to tell which. Maybe it was both of them, skipping rocks in Crowley’s belly. Taunting him.

“Tell me _what_, Angel?” The edge of a hiss on his tongue.

“She said she’d take my heart.”

“Your heart? ”

“Yeah. It’s what I offered-- albeit accidentally.”

“Okay, that’s-- Jesus.”

“But it had to be a deal. So she offered me freedom from my body. And, I got a free preview-- complete relief from everything until I’d decided.” Aziraphale sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose and eyebrows with a thumb and forefinger. He swept his hand back into his hair-- about a half-day past due for a shampoo-- and toppled his toque. He tried to grab it, but it fell to the floor between them.

Crowley reached down to pick it up.

“Demons don’t--” Crowley gestured with upturned palm, up and down Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley had to look up now, unless he wanted to stare at his collarbone. “Pain, and-- you know. The symptoms, the shit you’re going through. Medieval moonshine bunkham. An excuse to torture the mentally ill, or something. We _tempt._ Christ. Humans do the hacking out of hearts bit, ‘least on Earth.”

He felt a little like crying, but kind of manic. He jabbed at Aziraphale’s chest without quite making contact. Aziraphale pulled him into his arms-- awkward on the hard slippery pew; and buried his nose in Crowley’s hair.

Aziraphale looked back down and his scowl was ashen. But his eyes were still too soft to be terrifying.

“I’m sorry.” His breath tickled Crowley’s ear. “About everything.”

* * *

_“I don't know how I let you talk me into these things.” _

_Crowley's jumper was off his shoulders, restricting his elbows. He played with the ragged cuffs as he looked up at Aziraphale._

_Aziraphale's hair was clean and dry and he hadn't put anything in it, so it fluffed out and framed his face in a fuzzy halo._

_“You’re-- okay though, right? I mean…”_

_“I'm fine. I'm a little sore. But-- it’s okay. I'll get better. I think I've figured it out.”_

_“Okay… If you're sure. Just, if you need anything.”_

_“No, I'm-- Crowley, I don't wanna talk about it, but I'm not gonna let this-- I'm fine. It was just some weird episode but it's over.”_

_“You know I don't mind.”_

_“I know.” Aziraphale took advantage of Crowley’s bound elbows and gave a low chuckle-- caressing his bicep with calloused palms, burying his cold hands in Crowley’s sweater. Crowley angled his head and leaned into the kiss he knew was coming-- a lazy exploration of each other, a kiss he hummed into like it was frothy hot chocolate after a walk in the rain._

Liar.

* * *

Crowley felt raw and like he’d lost his moorings-- like the very ground beneath him might shift and shake and disappear altogether. It was exhausting.

He leaned against Aziraphale and they stared at the altar together, swaying a little. Aziraphale’s hand ran up and down his bicep when he shivered, and he worried a spot above Aziraphale’s belt with his thumb in kind.

The church was large and looming; the central altar illuminated by skylight. Behind it were the ‘cheap seats’-- rather than an external wall, the pews continued on behind the central altar to accommodate a large congregation, probably at the high holidays. A statue of Mary sat atop the altar, painted eyes boring into Crowley’s chest.

“We’ll be okay,” he said, quiet and croaking. “We will.”

“I hope so,” came the reply against his temple.

The hard surface was taking its toll on his back-- Christ, this couldn’t be good for Aziraphale.

“Let’s go. I’m tired.”

* * *

“What got into you? Really.”

Next to Crowley in the passenger’s seat, Aziraphale’s head lolled back against the headrest-- raised to the highest possible position. His seatbelt was done up and he sat with his knees apart and feet planted on the floor like he was bracing for impact, fingers digging into denim like he was resisting the tics Crowley had often seen out of the corner of his eye. 

“I don’t know.” When he spoke his voice was like a wooden spoon on a washboard; eyes pinched with the kind of exhaustion that wouldn’t let him sleep. “I feel--” he turned his head to meet Crowley’s eyes but couldn’t quite manage it. His hands-- gleaming against black fabric-- would do. His eyes traced the sinewy lines of his tendons and veins. “I feel crazy, Crowley. Everything feels like soup.” The cabin light dimmed and left them in darkness.

“Okay.” Crowley’s travel flask-- filled to the brim with Irish whiskey-- dug into his ass in the back pocket of his jeans. Close to holy water as he'd get. He’d cast a glance at a stoup near the entrance, graced by bone-coloured cherubim that seemed to be laughing at him pityingly. “It’s-- you’re not crazy.” He wriggled his hips to get comfortable and shift the flask. The pressure was grounding and in the relative safety of his car-- in the desolate gravel parking lot outside of the church-- Crowley could see the tendrils of a plan; of hope coming within reach.

If this was some delusion-- and hey, maybe a good ol’ shared delusion at that; he had after all heard the demon first hand-- then, well. They could deal with that. Frankly, if Crowley were to learn tomorrow that his entire six-thousand year history with Hell was a nuthouse mindshow of his own making, he’d be grateful. London was teeming with psychs, besides; and he’d be there for Aziraphale.

If it wasn’t a delusion, and Aziraphale’s albatross was part physical and part literal fucking demon -- what the hell. He’d signed up for that anyhow; he’d spent the better part of his burgeoning career trying to prove the existence of this . It was just that the closer he got, the more the picture he thought he’d had, shattered before his eyes. Situations took on nuance he hadn’t counted on. Mysteries crumpled before his eyes and intangible evil became disgusting and horrifyingly human. The meat they hacked up and tenderized into horror movies was all too often the simple flesh of man’s greed and that was all.

No ghosts no demons and nothing that went bump in the night-- just a yawning chasm of apathy.

Crowley reached over and put his hand firmly on Aziraphale’s thigh, sliding between palm and denim. He gave a light squeeze and turned back to fasten his seatbelt.

The sound of shoes on gravel.

Crowley’s breath quickened, heart racing before he’d processed the sound.

A slap. A white hand against his window.

Crowley fumbled for the keys but he could feel the door handle being wrenched from the outside; the figure desperate to get to him. Crowley’s finger flew to the lock button in time but just barely and the hand began to pound against the window, joined by its fisted twin. Just beyond in the blackness was the hint of a face-- shouting.

A white collar, poking out from black, flowing vestments in a distinctive V.

Crowley turned his key in the ignition and the engine turned over and with a rumble and the spray of gravel and silt, they tore out of the parking lot and onto unlit back roads under a blanket of stars.

* * *

“Holy fuck.” The tip of Crowley’s tongue tingled and tasted like blood. He stared straight ahead, determined to focus on every move he needed to make; scanning black amorphous mounds of shrubbery at the side of the road for deer-- and hopefully nothing else. He switched his high beams on but all he saw was more grey road and green leaves and little clumps of snow that held on in the shadows.

Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“Am I crazy or was that a fucking priest?”

“Wouldn’t be the strangest person to find at a church.”

Of course Aziraphale could check out of reality and still be unable to resist a sarcastic crack.

“Fuckssakes-- Aziraphale, maybe I shouldn’t have peeled out like that. Maybe he’s exactly who we need--”

Silence beside him. Crowley risked a glance or six but he wasn’t getting an answer. He’d turned up a service road headed away from the main highway and up a hill and he could see lights from semi trucks but couldn’t see how to get there. The church was just a dull lump in his rear view mirror now-- but all of a sudden he could see the silhouette of the split-rail fence that bordered her parking lot.

“I thought you didn’t believe me.”

“Aziraphale, that’s not-- I don’t know what the fuck is going on. He just was pretty fucking desperate to--” Crowley’s eyes kept flicking up to the rearview mirror. Oh.

Headlights. A car was leaving the church.

“To what, Crowley? Drag us out of the car and bludgeon us to death? Keep driving. Wouldn’t be the first deranged serial killer to dress up as a clergyman, I’m sure.”

Wind whipped across the fields and shook the car. His one bum door wobbled with the force and made a sound like a metallic drum. Crowley’s grip tightened.

The car crested the long hill and went down a small dip. The church was out of sight. Crowley glanced back and it wasn’t two minutes before the pursuing vehicle was in sight again. They were travelling fast-- Crowley was already speeding. He took a chance and turned at an unmarked intersection. He still wasn’t any closer to the highway; it was running parallel to them now, but that was fine. He couldn’t keep an eye on the car if they were on the highway.

The car turned after them.

“I think he’s following us,” Crowley said, gripping the steering wheel. He could practically feel Aziraphale’s ‘no shit’, but he felt him straighten up and go on the alert; measured breaths inhaled through his nose, eyes darting to the mirrors in succession, and fingers pressing divots into his thighs. 

“Turn-- oh, fuck. Turn-- sorry. There’s gonna be a bend in a bit, like a blind corner.” His voice was low and measured with a hint of tension but Aziraphale sounded sure.

“Okay…”

“I think it’s the second drive after the bend. There’s a berry farm in the valley and it’s-- yeah.”

They drove down the hill and the trees and shrubs increased in density all around them, eventually obscuring the main highway from sight altogether. There were still no streetlights, just Crowley’s lights illuminating flashes of deep green. No cars passed. They rounded the bend.

“There. Turn right, that big driveway with the mailboxes.”

They’d only just lost their pursuer. Crowley had seconds to spare. He turned far too sharply into the driveway without braking. Aziraphale didn’t make a sound, but his grip tightened and he planted his feet and resisted being flung sideways. The car jerked and Crowley’s seatbelt held Crowley back with bruising force.

“Turn your high beams off.” A click and they were off. “There’s a little-- just past these trees--” Crowley turned sharply again-- the right hand side of the driveway was a line of old oaks and a fence, but on the left were rows upon rows of nursery trees; naked save for the hint of new spring buds. They petered off and that was where he turned, and turned again until the car was nestled in a clump of bushes. He killed the engine and the lights.

They sat in the dark and didn’t breathe.

A breeze whispered through the branches.

Finally, a pair of headlights shot by-- barely visible through the greenery.

They waited ten, then fifteen, then twenty minutes. A pack of coyotes yipped and howled; not more than a field away. The wind picked up and though they were in the sanctuary of the valley, the cold began to seep in through the seals and Aziraphale shivered.

“Wanna risk it?”

“What if he’s lying in wait?” Aziraphale flicked his thumb from underneath his forefinger ten times, then flapped his wrist. His left hand stayed stationary, middle finger tracing lines in dark denim.

“I don’t care.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale blinked. He’d fallen asleep without noticing, fully clothed and sprawled out on top of the comforter, face down. He groaned and rolled his shoulders; still relishing the feeling of a pain-free spine. There was no way he could have done that six months ago-- not without waking up in agony. The only apparent drawback from co-hosting his own body with a demon, evidently, was a general loss of touch with reality. Also, the evident disconnect with one’s emotions, and a cold sense of dread._

  


No ambuscading priests awaited them as they crawled out of the driveway, tyres turning over deep, fresh gravel and climbing up onto the asphalt.

“How did you know that farm was there?”

Pause. Beat. Fake smile. Aziraphale, not all there again. 

“I thought we could go and visit. I hear they make the most succulent fruit pies.”

“Maybe in the morning.”

* * *

Another motel, but the town was a little bigger than the last. But what did it matter-- they all blurred together now. Life with a storm in the offing. Aziraphale had checked out even further than usual. He swayed in the car, but only in his head-- wait, did that make sense to anyone but him? No way to know. He couldn’t make himself speak if he had a gun to his head.

Why did Crowley have to be so nice to look at? His fantastic skin; a warm olive with a soft healthy sheen to it. He blushed a lot-- that was when his eyes would dart up to Aziraphale’s, accompanied by a smile he just couldn’t suppress. Blood would colour his face; a hint of pink. He’d always look away, until one day he didn’t. The perfect outline of his profile against the night sky; inspiring such a feeling in an angel _ must _be a sin somewhere, some time, some life--

Oh. That was the look there.

They weren’t in the car anymore, Aziraphale realized. Now, they were at some carbon copy motel, face to face, and nose to nose. The door had been closed, and locked, and he was down to his bare feet. He released Crowley’s elbow and flicked his wrist a few times to steady himself.

Crowley’s pulse fluttering in his neck. Turning around, pulling away. Not much but too much. Crowley kissing him, reaching up, holding the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale managed when they had to stop and breathe.

“I don’t care.” Crowley shot back and pressed his knuckles against Aziraphale, separated from his cock by linen and cotton. The backs of his knees met the bed. Clothing was peeled off, in an awkward negotiation of limbs. Aziraphale’s hand slid under the waistband of Crowley’s briefs and cupped him inelegantly at the angle, squeezing Crowley’s cock against his belly.

“Wait, I’m-- cold.” A hand was in Aziraphale’s unzipped jeans, and he was bare-chested.

“Aren’t you running on demon steam here? It’s not cold in here--” He backed off and stripped the rest of the way. Aziraphale crawled under the covers on his back and Crowley crawled in after him, spread hands on either side of Aziraphale’s rib cage. He chewed Aziraphale’s lip. His wrists ached and his arms started to shake and this really wasn’t an exercise in impressing anyone, so he sank to his elbows and a knee. He spat on his palm and wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s dick. Aziraphale jerked, a surprised, barely-audible moan. Crowley kissed him and pumped him up and down, short strokes barely enough. Aziraphale kept trying to reciprocate, but he was overcome, as Crowley had intended.

“Mmm-- c’mon. Just-- lay back.” He backed off of Aziraphale’s body, winking at him in the low light revealed by his peeling back the blanket. He cupped himself and scooted back on his knees

A calloused fist gripped him and guided his cock into a warm wet mouth. Aziraphale shouted. His hands flew to Crowley’s hair, hovering-- and down to his duvet-covered shoulders. His free hand took one of Aziraphale’s and held on, thumb rubbing comfort into his knuckles. Aziraphale’s head was back into the mattress, his eyes rolling into the back of his head; grunts high in the back of his throat as Crowley increased the suction and bobbed back to the head of his cock, and pumped the rest of him in his fist.

He managed an “I’m g--” and a frantic tap on Crowley’s shoulders. Crowley squeezed his hand in response, but kept going. A strong hand held held down his hips as he came, and Crowley swallowed around him.

* * *

A soft whisper of sheets over skin. Crowley held Aziraphale fast by the waist and his forehead nestled between his shoulder blades. A bleary hint of purple dawn peeked through a crack in the blackout curtains, and Crowley’s hand snaked down Aziraphale’s belly as he kissed his spine.

“Just give me this week. God, just this one week and I swear--” a dry crackling in his throat and his voice broke before trailing off

* * *

It rained for three days straight.

The water muffled the sounds of the highway and their tiny motel room felt smaller and smaller by the hour. Nights spent clinging to one another; their days in a strange stasis. Crowley watched the rain through the window; no hint of daylight peeking through. The constant wet chill grated on his bones and he took searing hot showers for as long as the water would last in an attempt to reboot the day and gain some perspective-- but it never worked. He left Aziraphale in the dark, grey room to have a nap on the second day and did all the laundry he could shove into a mesh bag with the handful of coins he still had left.

The motel laundry room only had one set of machines in a small room on the ground level. The access door led directly outside-- kitty corner to reception; but he still felt exposed. His mind felt raw. The night before he had only dreamt of hollow eyes, and a running corpse with Aziraphale’s face on it.

He swallowed a bitter taste at the memory, and set the laundry down to retrieve his headphones. Sleeping in shifts; staying up until all hours. Aziraphale was either exhausted, or burned with an intensity Crowley couldn’t name. He loaded the washing machine and bought soap from a rusted coin vender mounted on the wall, then forked over another pound fifty to run the washer.

* * *

Crowley sprinted flat out and straight over a cliff, flanked by monstrous creatures; their mouths black and gaping. The ground ran out before he did, and he ran headlong over a cliff.

He woke with a shout. He was sitting on top of the dryer, head back against the drywall. The end of the rinse cycle must have woken him. The strange figures in his dreams didn’t differentiate between deep sleep and napping these days-- but then again, neither did he. The slow, moody beats still rang out of his headphones and he concentrated on the muffled verses.

Shoving the wet laundry into the dryer, Crowley put his head down on the top of it and let the vibrations flow through him. He folded his arms and stretched his back out, alternating legs. Nausea reared its ugly head for a moment and he swore if he stood and opened his eyes, his vision would narrow. Even with his eyes closed, auras swam in his vision-- sparkling pinpricks and whorls that ran when he tried to look directly at them.

* * *

He shoved the unfolded, hot laundry into a mesh bag and slung it over his shoulder and dashed the ten or so feet that was uncovered by overhanging eaves to their room. Aziraphale hadn’t drawn the curtains, and Crowley could just see the outline of his fully clothed form on the bed; back leaning against the wall in a mirror of Crowley’s in the laundry room. 

Crowley’s heart sank.

He was in love.

* * *

“Hullo”

“Hullo,” Aziraphale echoed. His eyes were fixed on some unseen spot in space ahead of him.

“There aren’t any new cars in the lot, but--” Crowley trailed off. He drew the curtains, before turning on the bedside lamp.

* * *

“I can’t get through to you anymore.”

Aziraphale looked at him and swallowed. His eyes wanted to close but his head didn’t want them to, so the two sides battled it out in an eye-twitch. He felt like he was in a fishbowl, and Crowley didn’t speak fish. Icthy-- Icth-- how was that spelled again? He flicked the pent-up energy out of his wrist one, two, three times 

“You can. I’m just scared.

“I know, my dear,” said Crowley. “I know.”

* * *

That night, Aziraphale had asked him to fuck him for the first time and Crowley did; cool and slow, limbs searching in the dark. Legs spread wide; dextrous fingers reaching back for Crowley’s face, as his own worked in and out. Kisses desperate; Aziraphale’s soft sounds muffled by the storm that grew outside their door. He sank himself deep inside, holding Aziraphale’s hands over his chest and whispering comfort into his ears as he nipped them.

“I need you. I need you, so badly--”

* * *

In the throes of passion, it was difficult to distinguish a thunderstorm directly overhead from the frantic pounding of a gloved fist against their door.

* * *

“Crowley-- please.”

Aziraphale felt elated, ecstatic-- but also like the world might end at any second. Like he might be able to fly, if only he tried. He wanted to run at a full tilt for as long as he could; he wanted to shout, or sing. The single drive was move, run; just do something. Anything--

“No. I won’t be party to this-- Not anymore. I’m _ frightened, _ Angel.” Crowley was naked underneath a sheet. He held it over his crotch and swung to sit on the side of the bed. “Jesus _ sufferin’ fuck _ , what am I _ doing _\--”

“Please.”

“Aziraphale, no. Assuming this isn’t quite literally a massive delusion that I’ve enabled for the past what, three months? You promised me. You promised me that you’d at least get the physical looked at properly when we got home.”

Another “case” pitched as shadily as he could get away with, that was essentially folie a deux couple’s counselling-- and instead of a counsellor, they just had each other and a seriously tenuous grasp on reality.

“I can’t do it. I-- I have never felt as okay as I do now. If this is what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life, I don’t give a how short that is. I don’t--”

“Oh, fuck you. Just, fuck you, Aziraphale.”

“You don’t understand. We can be together, and we can do whatever we want. We can--”

“We can wait for you to fucking die, you mean. Do you even hear yourself? You selfish, fucking prick --”

“It’s going to kill me anyway!” Aziraphale shot back. His voice echoed in the small room, hitting the light fixture and ringing like a bell.

Crowley was silent. His eyes were lined with stinging tears. The ecstacy drained from Aziraphale’s limbs.

“You don’t even know that.” When Crowley finally spoke, his voice broke. “You don’t even know anything. You just want to check out of life. It’s like you’ve given up already.”

“I have.”

“Wh-- what if it’s nothing? How do you know what it is?”

Aziraphale ducked his head, busying himself with folding his small pile of laundry.

* * *

“I thought we could have this week, at least--”

“Yeah, and even that’s been like a fucking funeral procession. Jesus-- that’s what I’m trying to tell you, Aziraphale. I don’t want to be with you if it’s going to be in this-- this horrible limbo. Just waiting for something awful to happen; knowing it’s coming. It’s fake and it’s horrible. I want us to have a real life together. We don’t have to know what’s coming, and it doesn’t have to be perfect or even ‘normal’. Fucking-- fucking long walks on the beach and mediocre days at theme parks. One of us giving the flu to the other and staying home watching bad television. A few awful apartments, and then maybe we find one we really like…”

“You don’t want-- this mess. I’m--”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I want! Jesus Christ. ”

“I want to say yes.”

_ “Arsehole.” _

* * *

The sun came out and made the tarmac smell like ozone and fungus. Crowley already stood in the open door, shaking his head 

“You know, I don’t even know what I mean to you. Aziraphale? Does that even make a difference?”

“Does it matter--” wrong thing. Wrong thing. That does not sound-- . No--

“Of c-- you know what, no. It’s fine. I’ll see you. Keep my car, I’ll get to the greyhound station.”

Crowley tossed his backpack over his shoulder and walked away.

Five minutes down the highway, he shot off a text.

and for the love of christ stay safe would you 11:24 

i love you 11:38

* * *

4 MISSED CALLS 18:43

YOU HAVE TWO (2) VOICEMAIL MESSAGES 18:49

NEW SMS MESSAGE RECEIVED (hidden) 19:00 

hey can u plz answer? im just checking to see if ur ok.

19:01 

NEW SMS MESSAGE RECEIVED (hidden) 19:20

4 UNREAD MESSAGES

im hoping u just lost ur charger but im worried ok

19:04

im getting rly worried. im sorry i just left like that.

i just pulled into the depot. 19:15 

ur phones charged its just ringing. hoping u lost it.

im gonna call the front desk ok plz answer the door 19:18 

please be ok. 19:20

* * *

_ “Guess that’s it, then,” Aziraphale said to no-one in particular. _

_ He sank back into the darkness of their motel room. _

_ Aziraphale had seen that coming. He’d watched him disappear, walking down the side of the highway. _

_ “What’re you doing in there? It sounds like you’re scrubbing your hands raw with a wire brush-- I’m not judging--” _

_ Crowley laughed from behind the bathroom door. _

_ “There’s a speck of mud or something on my cravat I wore it all week, blithering idiot, and I can’t very well get it to a cleaner’s--” _

* * *

Crowley sat on the side of another dingy motel bed in muddy jeans, fussing over a silk scarf. It was a recent memory, but Aziraphale saw it in sparkling clarity-- Crowley’s smooth skin, his toned arms in a white tee that had seen better days. His face; smiling and genuinely happy, but with an underlying tension clear in the corners of his eyes and the way his eyes would cast down all of a sudden like he was slammed with reality.

It was a good memory, but like all of his memories as of late-- and all of his dreams, and sometimes when he just closed his eyes-- dark shapes crawled around in the corners where they should never have been. In every corner of his mind, some evidence of a slithering mass--

Aziraphale blinked. He’d fallen asleep without noticing, fully clothed and sprawled out on top of the comforter, face down. He groaned and rolled his shoulders; still relishing the feeling of a pain-free spine. There was no way he could have done that six months ago-- not without waking up in agony. The only apparent drawback from co-hosting his own body with a demon, evidently, was a general loss of touch with reality. Also, the evident disconnect with one’s emotions, and a cold sense of dread.

He chuckled to himself as he reached under the bed for a bottle of water, feeling the blood rush to his head. That would make a good commercial-- Demons! Cures what ails ya! And then, at top verbal speed--side effects may include losing touch with reality, having a cold black heart, and imminent death-- depending on the mood of your particular demon.

His demon hadn’t reared her figurative head in some time now, but he could feel her scratching at the corners of his existence every now and then.

It was early evening, and the rain hadn’t come back. He blinked, and he was standing; drinking the bottle of water and staring out at the mostly empty parking lot. He didn’t bother with vigilance anymore-- there wasn’t much point. With Crowley gone… he wondered what having a family would feel like.

* * *

Aziraphale blinks.

He's young, and weak. Michael is throwing dishes, whipping around with a wild look on her face.

She's bent at the waist; her chest heaving with rage and a plate in her hand and she's ready to bash it against the counter.

“Why can't you just be normal,” she screams. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

He turns to look out the window. In this memory, it should be a grey fall day. Now, it is pitch black. The window is wide open. Something indistinct-- he can’t quite make it out; something thin, black, and shiny-- creeps into view and latches onto the frame. 

She’s still seething, ranting at him about anything and everything that makes him strange. Things he doesn’t notice but that set her on edge.

“What the-- Aziraphale, I am _speaking_ to you. Make fucking eye contact for once in your life. What the hell are you staring at--”

A long, dark, and segmented body slithers down her face. She doesn’t flinch.

* * *

He blinked again, and found himself walking down the highway in the opposite direction that Crowley had taken. Tears fell down his face and he could swear a sizeable rugby player was seated on his chest, but he didn’t know why.

His pockets, he noted, were empty-- of his phone and wallet-- but the motel key-card was in his hoodie. At least he’d probably closed the door, he thought. At least Crowley’s car wouldn’t get stolen. The sun had long since set, and the air was still warm and wet and heavy from the rain. Far off in the distance, an angry prairie storm was brewing, threatening a repeat of the previous night; but not close enough. It wasn’t even raining, where he stood. He watched the looming black cloud, tiny and distant, light up purple with shots of lightning-- followed by booming thunder. 

Walking on, he took a vicious kick at a stone and sent it flying down the new asphalt. It landed with a satisfying klack . Maybe he was feeling angry after all. Crowley wasn’t wrong. He himself wasn’t wrong. Life was wrong.

Maybe his brain was wrong.

* * *

Some time in the sticky seventies, Aziraphale is hauled back up to Heaven for an update and he's wearing rainbow suspenders. There’s a little bit of dark grey eyeliner involved, but all it does is make the corners of his eyes feel dry and gritty. Too human, too strange; a hedonist a sinner _ you know why they were all cast down, don’t you-- _

* * *

“Painful memories,” Aziraphale says-- out loud, alone on a deserted road in the middle of the night. “Not terribly original.” He shouts the last part, and after a moment; a distant porch light comes on.

Silence.

She’d been silent for a while now.

* * *

There’s a song stuck in Aziraphale’s head, and he just keeps walking; even as the damp soaks the canvas tops of his sneakers and creeps up his trousers. He just walks on, with a bit of a dance to his step, ignoring the gooseflesh all over his arms and his chest under his thin clothing. He’s distantly aware of his physical body, but at the same time-- for the first time, he enjoys having one. It feels like living. 

He can’t say no, to this.

He loses Crowley either way. He’s already lost whatever family he had-- he can’t really pinpoint having genuine friendships, if he really thinks about it. Too human, it was always too human...

Why not keep on like this? Why not wander around the countryside, enjoying what time he had left.

I mean, that’s the choice; when it comes down to it. A lonely, miserable life of pain-- or one at least without the pain part? And to clarify, you do love him, right?" 

“I should have known you were still here.”

“Of course I’m still here--”

“Are-- were those even my own thoughts?” Aziraphale asks aloud, going into a full-on pirouette all by himself on the side of the road. “You… you bitch.” 

Aziraphale hears a loud, drawn out sigh in his mind. It’s a bit funny-- she certainly sounds like a human woman when she wants to, but sometimes he can hear the sound of tiny claws on glass at the edges of her voice. It’s more prominent when she’s pissed off. 

“Kind of? I mean, those weren’t really original questions, you fuckin’ genius.” For a second, Aziraphale could swear she’s taken a long drag from a cigarette. “What the fuck is so funny?”

“Just imagining cigarette smoke coming out of my ears, that’s all.”

“Right. So anyway, I am going to need some clarification. You did, in fact, indicate that you were in love with one Anthony J. Crowley--”

“Keep his name out of your mouth.”

“That’s all the confirmation I need, thanks honey.”

* * *

The crunch of tires on gravel-- like a car pulling out of a driveway. I should turn around, he thought idly. No shadows were cast, though they should have been dramatic from the vehicle’s headlights. Well that’s great. Nobody who’s up to anything decent ever turns off their running lights-- but Aziraphale felt like he could sleep right there; standing up on the side of a pitch-black highway; too remote for the state to bother installing lamps.

Without thinking, he dropped to the ground and rolled into the ditch-- and listened as the car rolled on by.

_ the only trouble is... _

* * *

_ “Uh huh. Demon curry--” _

_ “You’re gonna be the death of both of us; I swear to God--” Crowley’s voice went up at least an octave; in that tone he had when he had just been scared less and then immediately felt relieved. _

_ Shaking with suppressed laughter, Aziraphale ducked to kiss Crowley on the forehead. “C’mon. Can’t keep Beelzebub waiting.” He pushed off of the cot and hurried down the stairs, Crowley crashing around behind him. _

* * *

Aziraphale lay in the long, damp grass until he couldn’t hear the car anymore.

He waited another five minutes for good measure, watching a blinking satelite make its way slowly across a blanket of stars. Wind whispered through the leaves above him, and they shivered drops of rain that still clung to them. A little way around the bend, an old faded sign read: “NO ACCESS TO RIVER”.

Through the trees and down the lane stood a cottage-- old, with peeling paint and clearly uninhabited for some time-- but not dilapidated. Aziraphale coughed and his lungs felt like they were full of cobwebs; and his temple throbbed.

The image before him shook and shifted. The sky darkened in a way it shouldn’t have. When he turned his head, a dozen beady eyes stilled and slunk back into the bushes; articulated legs and antennae disturbing the greenery. Holding himself and rubbing warmth into his arms, he ran for the house. He hoped he could jimmy the lock.

It would have to do.

* * *

“Finally ”, Crowley grumbled through the receiver. Some half-witted idiot had finally decided to pick up the phone. “Hi. I need some information. Y--”

“River lodge, how can I help you?”

Deliberately obtuse, then. Fun.

“Hi, yeah. I was staying at your place and I just left yesterday. Well, about twelve hours ago. I just-- my-- my friend was there with me, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with him. I was wondering if you could check the room for me-- it was room twelve--”

“Twelve? Uhh--” He turned away from the phone and Crowley heard muffled sounds of papers being ruffled and the guy standing up from a creaky old office chair. “Yeah, bud. Sorry man, we never heard back from him. I’ve got his in a box, if--”

“Wait, what? What do you mean, never heard back ? We had the room for another day or two--” Crowley tripped over his words. The back of his throat felt thick and his chest heavy. He took his anxiety out on the grimy metal phone cord and banged his head on the side of the payphone, hiding his head with his arm. “ , ah-- what happened?”

“I dunno what to tell you, man.” The guy took a long drag of a cigarette, and kept speaking on the exhale. “About ten last night, we did a walkaround. The door was open-- like, wide open, and nobody was there.”

“Jesus Christ . Jesus. D-- did you call the cops? Did you bother telling anyone? Wh--”

“Chill out, man. People ditch all the time. Not much of a unique situation, if you take my meaning. We usually wait a little, then…”

The man kept droning on, but Crowley felt eyes on him. He turned slowly to look over his shoulder.

There, a few feet behind him, stood a tall figure in black vestments; complete with a wide-brimmed saturno, and white collar. A woman. She smiled at Crowley. He gaped at her, and let the receiver hang on its cord. She raised a hand in greeting, the other held fast behind her back.

“I believe we are looking for the same angel,” said the priestess. “My name is Anathema.”

  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale walks slowly through the rows of pews in the Queen of Peace. None of the lights work-- the place is lit by moonlight. It’s empty; charred and scarred like a bomb went off in the epicentre, but every few seconds the picture sort of shakes and cracks and he's in a full church well lit with candles and pot lights and everyone is singing, standing up holding their little books. Someone in the choir has a really deep voice and it almost vibrates in his ear, but nobody can see him._
> 
> _His boot crunches broken glass on the floor. There's a kind of cackling shrieking rustling from outside- a slithering sound of hard, segmented bodies on glass and wood. A hollering and a whooping._
> 
> _He just walks on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here she is, the grand finale. sorry, this chapter is quite long. and smutty at the end, i might add.

“Seances were routinely held at the home, in an attempt to contact the deceased-- and some claim--” a smile crept across Crowley’s face. He snorted and jerked sideways. “Dammit, Aziraphale,” he laughed. “Can’t you tell how serious this is? It’s on a bloody pamphlet. Serious business, pamphlets."

Aziraphale got him upside the head with a soft feather pillow, sending popcorn flying.

“You son of a--” Crowley chucked a handful of the corn at Aziraphale. He stood up, the creaky chair he sat in making a loud scraping sound on the old unfinished wood floor of the attic.

“You’re right, this is very serious--” Aziraphale put on his patented news anchor voice, but it broke with his giggling and where he dodged various soft projectiles Crowley hurled across the room. “You know we’re gonna have to clean this all u--"

Crowley tossed the bowl of popcorn down on his makeshift desk, then faked left. He surged forward to his right, and tackled Aziraphale on his left and down onto the cot. He straddled one of Aziraphale’s knees and beat him mercilessly with another soft, light pillow.

“No--” piff-- “ you’re gonna--” piff, piff-- “ clean this up--” whack-- “ while I scarf down curry without y--”

His head thrown back in breathless laughter, Aziraphale saw his opportunity. Above him, Crowley’s face was flushed with exertion; his grip on the pillow weakening more with each swing, hands limply swatting away any attempt by Aziraphale to reach up for him. Aziraphale seized the moment, planting a hand on Crowley’s hip and flipping their position in one motion.

“Love?” Aziraphale asked, out of breath. “We’ve locked the door, yeah?”

He’d knocked the laughter right out of Crowley, who now lay on his back with a wicked grin, one hand just holding onto the soft material of Aziraphale’s shirt. He cocked an eyebrow, and said ‘but we can be quiet ,’ in barely a whisper. He shot Aziraphale a wicked grin and fisted the fabric in his hand.

The doorbell rang. The sound was loud and resounded throughout the house, cutting him off. Crowley immediately tensed and twisted Aziraphale’s jacket hard. He whipped his head in the general direction of the stairwell, eyes wide; his jaw set in a hard line.

“We-- Crowley. Calm down. We ordered a curry, remember?”

“ _ Jeezus _ , f-- yeah. I’m good--” Crowley was still wide-eyed, but Aziraphale’s amusement was catching. He swallowed, loudly. “I just. Not a fan of coincidences, me.”

“Uh huh. Demons deliver curry now--”

“You’d be surprised, honestly,” Crowley’s voice went up at least an octave; in that tone he had when he had just been scared less and then immediately felt relieved.

Shaking with suppressed laughter, Aziraphale ducked to kiss Crowley on the forehead. “C’mon. Can’t keep Beelzebub waiting.” He pushed off of the cot and hurried down the stairs, Crowley crashing around behind him.

“You’re lucky I don’t take offence lightly.”

They paid the delivery driver-- an unassuming middle aged woman with a toothy grin and a seriously terrible old Dodge Dart-- and headed back up to the dining room to eat.

“God, do you think these will really help? I mean--”

It was Crowley’s voice, but he hadn’t opened his mouth-- and it sounded all around Aziraphale, like hearing it underwater.

“Huh? Crowley, did you say something?” 

“What? Yeah, just-- Satan’s own korma tastes pretty good,” he repeated his joke slowly; eyes betraying concern.

_ “Just shut up and help me with this incantation.” _

“Crowley, what was that?” The second voice wasn’t Crowley at all, but someone else entirely.

Aziraphale felt a little frantic, and Crowley wasn’t responding at all. He was just carrying on as normal; nibbling at leftover crusts with his head resting on his hand, elbow on the table.

“Hmm?”

Aziraphale blinked, and where there had been four candles-- cheap as hell, in glass holders emblazoned with Archangels and a little printed blessing-- there were now at least a dozen. They lit up the table, their reflection sparkling in Crowley’s dark eyes.

“Uh, Crowley--?”

“Aziraphale, please.” He spoke again, without changing his face much. Aziraphale couldn’t tell if his mouth was moving or not, but he knew Crowley was speaking.  _ “Aziraphale, please. You have to wake up. For me?” _

“Crowley, what?”

“I just, ah-- wondered if you wanted to head-- y’know. Back upstairs.” As though the moment before had never happened, he grabbed Aziraphale’s hand on the table and rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb.

“You do have enough sanctified candles to light up a cathedral, after all,” Aziraphale replied; but his voice was quiet and got lost in watching Crowley get up. They still held hands, and Aziraphale went where he was led-- up the creaking, old stairs, and down the hall. The candles were forgotten in their slow ascent, but it didn’t seem to matter.

Crowley kissed him in the doorway. He cupped Aziraphale’s face in his hands to urge him down; nipping at his bottom lip, then kissing him hard and searching in the low light. It felt so real to Aziraphale-- so real, that he ignored the strange dinner they had just shared.

He ignored the ghostly army of candles that seemed to multiply by the minute, standing sentry by the doorway and all the way down the stairs.

Snaking his hands around Crowley’s waist, Aziraphale was tentative at first; awkward and tender as always. Crowley was insistent-- fevered, even-- his eyes screwed tight, and his touch searching. He ran his hands up and down Aziraphale’s arms, gripping here and there though the fabric.

Crowley wrenched himself away and crossed his arms over his torso to take off his shirt.

His chest was bloody. He was covered in deep scratches.

“What the fuck-- Crowley, are you okay?”

“What? Of course I’m fine--”

“No. Look down at your chest. Crowley, Jesus. Did something attack you?”

“There’s nothing on my chest-- just, come here, would you?”

“Crowley, look down.”

He tucked his chin to look down, and swept a shaking hand through the semi-coagulated blood and deep, angry slashes.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley spoke slowly. His eyes were wide with terror and disbelief, and he began to take timid steps backward.

Lightning cracked the sky and shook the house.

_ “Stop, no. Just stay there, please, Crowley-- we, I have to keep you safe-- No--” _

Behind Crowley, the old attic window slammed open with a powerful gust of wind. All at once, the now hundreds of candles were snuffed out in an instant and left the room in pitch black, save for the ambient light from the moon outside.

_ “Too late, sugar.” _

“No--”

Another gust of wind and an ear-splitting crack of lightning-- but this time, it sucked the air out of the room-- and Crowley along with it.

“He’s mine now.”

Aziraphale bolted to the window, but Crowley was long gone-- vanished except for his lingering screams.

“I came for your heart-- and I got it.”

* * *

Crowley turned his head to look at the somberly clad driver to his left, blinking sleep out of his dry eyes.

“What?” They had been driving for only an hour or so, but Crowley felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

“But not with ice cream. Newt loves it with ice cream, but it’s just too much-- ya know?” She noticed Crowley glaring at him, and cleared his throat. “There’s just, ah-- this really great pie place at the next exit. My boyfriend and I found it last summer, I’d almost forgotten--”

“You’re the bicycle witch.”

“Good job.”

* * *

“God damn, I wish we had time to stop for pie.”

Crowley turned his head to look at the somberly clad woman to his right, blinking sleep crusties out of his dry eyes.

“What?” They had been driving for only an hour or so, but Crowley felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

“But not with ice cream. Newt loves it with ice cream, but it’s just too much-- ya know?” She noticed Crowley glaring at him, and cleared her throat. “There’s just, ah-- this really great pie place at the next exit. My boyfriend and I found it last summer, I’d almost forgotten--”

“Wait, your boyfriend? I thought you were a priest--”

“You know, I’d have thought Demons would be more familiar with Church hierarchy. You’re right for the wrong reasons.” She fidgeted and smiled brightly, some colour touching her cheeks and going up into her hairline. “Vicars of Dibley everywhere. I’m a Catholic priest. Or I was  _ thisclose _ to getting ordained--” She scowled and glared at her pinched fingers. 

“Would you watch the  _ bloody  _ road--” Crowley gripped the aged leather seat until it squeaked.

They were on a long stretch of highway, and aside from the occasional truck heading in the opposite direction, they were the only vehicle in sight. Tucking himself as far to the side as he could, Crowley’s eyes darted to his seatbelt buckle, to the door handle, and to the dusty median-- but it was dusk and they going 130.

“So you’re--”

“Man, calm down.”

“Fake priest, driving like a Christing bat out of Hell? I’ll be dead before I find the angel at this rate.”

“Okay, okay. Seriously, you need to calm down.” There was humour in her voice-- despite everything, Crowley had felt he could trust this woman. Then again, he had no earthly idea who he actually was, and he hadn’t really asked how Anathema had found him at the tiny greyhound station in the middle of nowhere. His heart was pounding in his throat. There was no way out of this rickety old boat of a Lincoln--

“Tell me what’s going on right now. ”

“Bud. I’m not gonna hurt you.” She spread her hands on the steering wheel placatingly and chuckled. “I was a priest, okay? Whole deal. It was my...my calling, if you will. Loved it. Life goal. That and world history. I even went to Rome to become an exorcist--” She ran a hand through her long, raven hair, smiling fondly at the memory.

“You’re way too young--”

“Nah, just started early, I guess.” She was tall-- not quite as tall as Aziraphale. Deep set eyes and lush features glinted in the low dashboard lights, and her rough chuckle peppered the conversation.

“Heavy.”

Anathema swallowed. At the very edges of her eyes, she looked sad. She leaned her left elbow against the closed window and stretched his shoulders, like she was centring herself. “Yeah. It all went to shit when they found out I was a chick. And a witch.”

“Ah.”

“And that work is what, exactly?”

“Oh, it’s exorcisms. I’m an exorcist. Not an official one, but a friggin’ good one, if I do say so myself. I’m also working on a masters degree in psych, so there’s that. I just-- I was hanging out with Newt one night, when I first started doubting-- anyway. Long story short, I took too many mushrooms, and it all kinda fell into place.”

“Oh. Um. Wow. Okay-- So the church-- Queen of Peace, I mean.”

“Yeah, that’s not a church. It was falling apart, so we decided to buy it. Originally, we’d planned to flip it and run a weirdly religious like, B and B. But then I heard another kind of calling altogether--” She turned and flashed Crowley a huge, toothy grin. “A call from the souls of the damned. It’s been de-consecrated, but you already knew that.”

Crowley opened his mouth to speak, but the radio crackled to life of its own accord. She knew. She was only human, but-- well. He could only hope he was right about her; that this wasn’t all a trap. 

_ “...Only trouble is, gee whiz…” _

All at once, he felt like he had been slashed across the chest-- one long, angry assault-- that left him breathless.

_ “I’m dreaming my life away…” _

“Oh, Jesus--” Crowley croaked out, desperate for air and shocked at the pain. “Oh-- Jesus Christ, I--”

“You okay? Wh--”

“I’m fine--”

“You need me to pull over? What happened? What is it?” Anathema’s gaze flicked back and forth between the road ahead, and Crowley’s face.

Crowley took a deep breath, at long last. “No. I’m fine-- now. What the fuck was that? I…” he splayed his hand across his chest as he took long, careful breaths. “I felt like I just got clawed, right across the chest. All of a sudden.”

“Right when the radio turned on? Like, turned itself on?”

“Yes.” Crowley took a steadying breath. With shaking hands and a fluttering heart, he rummaged through the canvas backpack at his feet for a bottle of water and gulped it down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anathema scrutinizing him, like she wanted to say something-- but didn’t.

“Must be getting close.”

Anathema slowed the car to turn up a service road, lined with poplars whose leave shivered in the late evening breeze.

“I gotta grab a few things first though-- I wanna make sure we find him. And ah, it’s-- it’s obviously not just about this supposed demonic possession. I want to get your boy home safe,” Anathema explained. He pulled into the parking lot of the Queen of Peace.

Anathema folded herself and exited the big old car and replaced the saturno on her head. She walked up to the steps of the church, long black cloak swinging out behind her, black boots skiffing through the stones beneath her feet.

The huge oak double doors swung open, and Anathema flicked on the row of light switches-- but Crowley could see only one thing.

Aziraphale. 

Kneeling at the foot of the altar in the center of the empty church in some mockery of prayer; his face smeared against the stone base, trailing a streak of blood. Clutched in his arms, a sawed off shotgun.

_ “Whenever I want you, _

_ all I have to do is dream… _

_ dream, dream, dream…” _

* * *

_ Aziraphale walks slowly through the rows of pews in the Queen of Peace. None of the lights work-- the place is lit by moonlight. It’s empty; charred and scarred like a bomb went off in the epicentre, but every few seconds the picture sort of shakes and cracks and he's in a full church well lit with candles and pot lights and everyone is singing, standing up holding their little books. Someone in the choir has a really deep voice and it almost vibrates in his ear, but nobody can see him. _

_ His boot crunches broken glass on the floor. There's a kind of cackling shrieking rustling from outside- a slithering sound of hard, segmented bodies on glass and wood. A hollering and a whooping. _

_ He just walks on. _

* * *

“Jesus, no. Aziraphale--” Crowley ran toward the limp body. He was still breathing.

“Well, shit. I’ll call an ambulance,” Anathema said dryly, standing a few feet back with her hands on her hips. She pulled out his phone from a pocket and dialled, turning around as he muttered into it.

Crowley took off his jacket and eased Aziraphale down to lie on the floor. It didn’t look like his neck or spine were injured-- just a nasty bash to the forehead-- and his eyes were half open and glazed over, like he was in and out of consciousness; vocalizing painfully with each breath.

“I told you. You’ll be the death of both of us; I swear to God--” he said quietly. Aziraphale looked for half a second like he might laugh.

The angel’s forehead was hot to the touch, and every second that passed, it seemed like he was in more and more pain-- but never waking up. He trembled and gasped every so often, clutching at Crowley’s hands.

Anathema ended the call.

“An ambulance is on its way. We could probably get him there faster in my car, but…” she shrugged. “I’m gonna grab a few things, do a slap-up little rite right here. Nasty bitch, this one.” She turned and disappeared somewhere in the backspace up the stairs by the front door. She returned shortly, a bundle of cheap dollar store apostle candles gathered in his arms, and a stick of incense hanging off her lip.

Reluctantly, Crowley released his hold on Aziraphale and stood, assisting the erstwhile priestess in lighting every single candle in a circle around Aziraphale.

“God, do you think these will really help? I mean--”

Aziraphale croaked and shouted in pain; helpless, and made an awful retching sound.

“Shut up, and help me with this incantation.”

* * *

_ Music echoes eerily through the church from some unseen source. _

_ I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine _

_ Anytime night or day _

_ Only trouble is, gee whiz _

_ I'm dreamin' my life away _

_ He clutches his sawed off shotgun. He knows it's packed full of rock salt and grave dust. _

_ The gathered worshippers aren't happy. _

_ He can’t quite make out the priest’s face. It’s unclear; like the image is missing. _

_ _

* * *

“We need you to hold on, Aziraphale,” commanded Anathema. “For Crowley. Just stay with me---”

“Aziraphale, please. You have to wake up. For me--” The sound of sirens sounded in the distance and came closer and closer. “I think he’s-- Oh, fuck--”

“Crowley, what?” Anathema stopped stock still in the middle of what she was doing. “I’m trying to get this together, and we don’t have much time--”

“No, something’s wrong.”

“What, is he--”

“No, fuck. With me. I’m--” he flailed his arms in a panic, hands pulling at his shirt. “Fuck. Something’s scratching me-- get it off.  _ Shitshitshit _ , get it off--”

* * *

_ The shrieking subsides a moment and then eyes appear in a crack on top of one of the stained glass windows- it's Mary and her eyes gleam black. _

_ And then there's a whisper like the trees know what's coming, like the woods have never forgotten-- and then their screams reach a fever pitch. _

_ Their slithering jet bodies pour in through the cracks like poisoned water. their claws clacking across the glass, splintering and shattering. _

_ Aziraphale takes a deep breath and fires at the leader first and then into the group at random but now the moon's blocked out like she doesn’t want to see-- and he can't see . _

_ _

_ Whenever I want you, all I have to do is _

_ Dream... dream, dream, dream... _

_ _

_ A sickening crack on his skull and an excited scream from the creatures shakes the building to its foundations. _

_ Before Aziraphale succumbs to the pain in his head- hot and nauseating green-- he’s looking at that devastating priest-- who looks at Aziraphale in pity before he steps aside. _

_ On the altar lays Crowley, bloodless and still. _

* * *

_ I can make you mine, taste your lips of wine _

_ Anytime night or day _

_ Only trouble is, gee whiz _

_ I'm dreamin' my life away _

The hospital was deserted-- relatively speaking-- and Crowley sat in the hallway and tried to keep his mind occupied. It was an old building; outdated aqua tiles on the walls and the floor in varying shades of orange linoleum. Next to him was Anathema, who lounged with her legs straight out in front of her , black wide-brimmed hat pulled down over her face.

Every now and then, a nurse or someone on staff would pass them by without making eye contact; usually pushing a plastic cart piled high with linens.

“You don’t really have to stay--”

“Yes I do,” Anathema replied, without removing the hat or looking at Crowley. “Can’t just go around starting exorcisms will-you-nill-you and never finishing them.”

Crowley swallowed and gripped the scratchy burlap covering on the hard metal chair. He started to sweat-- it was hot inside the old hospital, and the air conditioning was either broken or nonexistent; or turned off for budget reasons. Whatever the reason, it made him all the more desperate for an answer. They hadn’t been allowed to ride in the ambulance with Aziraphale, mostly because of the cramped space, and had followed in Anathema’s Lincoln. They weren’t even sure which part of the hospital he was in, and at arsehole-o’clock in the morning, the tiny hospital was thin on staff.

“He’ll be fine,” Anathema spoke again, sleepy and amused. She shifted, stretching his back and shoulders. She kept her arms folded over her chest and winked at an orderly who pointedly stepped over her black boots. “He’s a nice angel.”

“Okay, so-- he is possessed though, right? I mean--” Crowley asked. His upper lip stung with sweat, and the last staff fly-by had smacked him in the face with the scent of ammonia. 

“Oh yeah. I tailed you guys for a fuckin  _ while _ . That is one slippery angel, I tell you--”

Glancing sideways, Crowley saw her smirk, like he saw her watching. “Since when?”

“I got feelers everywhere, at least in my little patch. You have no idea how many idiots wander into these demon houses and get themselves nice and infested. Usually, people come to me-- but they gotta know what’s going on to do that, you know?

“Demon houses?”

“Yeah. Since the whole heaven cock-up. They’re everywhere.” 

“I should have know. It’s. Something I should be familiar with. I’m out of my depth, I shouldn’t be out of my depth when it comes to-- fucking--  _ rogue hellions.” _

Anathema produced a toothpick out of nowhere, and it hung off of her lip. “I was watching this one but one day she was just-- like, gone. ” She chuckled, and sat forward to look at Crowley. “They figured out who’d gone through there-- weren’t too many options-- and you just so happened to be coming through my neck of the woods-- so here we are.” She settled back into her previous position. “It is really too bad I spooked you so bad that first night."

“Th-- were you in the house with us?”

“Yeah, that was my screw up. Could’a had it in one, but no--”

“That’s kind of when all this started-- I mean, that’s when Aziraphale started to get weird.” Crowley felt a strange disconnect; like he should feel more disturbed by Anathema’s stalking them, but the feeling never really came. He filled her in on everything; the fact Aziraphale had made a deal to stave off some physical affliction or other; and that he seemed prepared to die rather than actually live through whatever it was-- at least, after being presented with an alternative.

“One thing you gotta understand, Crowley-- listen to me.” She took Crowley’s hands in hers . “These things are just opportunists. It got its hooks into Aziraphale because of some kind of weakness. You were right to hassle him; to be concerned that it might just be psychiatric. Newt and I will do what we can, but this-- the hospital? Doctors? That’s what Aziraphale needs. I can help with the spiritual. But his mind and body need real help.”

* * *

An orderly showed up at long last-- looking a bit surprised to see them sitting in the hallway. He was short and stocky, and far too energetic for the hour. He walked behind the reception desk and haphazardly moved a pile of files, and booted up a computer, then bopped back out in front of them and led the way to Aziraphale.

The emergency section was a little busier; a few people here and there in beds talking quietly with loved ones or sleeping uneasily. Four of the dozen or so bed were filled, and Aziraphale was in the centre on the far wall, old cranberry curtains drawn closed on the sides. He lay on his side with a hand under his pillow, and his headwound wrapped and dressed.

“Just over here, guys-- I think he’s just having a nap,” the orderly chuckled, leading past the corridor and dodging a handful of harried doctors. He parted the curtains and stepped aside for Crowley and Anathema to pass in front, then drew them totally closed to the corridor.

Aziraphale stirred at their arrival. His eyes opened a crack, and he glanced over at Crowley, but stayed on his side and shrugged the blankets tighter.

Grabbing the clipboard from off of the wall, the orderly continued.

“He’s with you, right? He had a pretty bad bash on the head there-- wanna make sure he’s not alone. I’ve got a little envelope here-- oh hey bud, you’re awake--” he beamed at Aziraphale, who just narrowed his eyes and sniffed. “I’ve got an envelope here, just with some information sheets about concussions, and what meds we gave you here at the hospital, okay? There’s also a prescription here-- just for a refill on the pain pills, and a note to get some ice packs.”

“That’s it? Just the head injury?”

“Yep! It’s all good; he’s doing pretty great! The doc checked him over, and we can have you all out of here in just a few here--”

“Ok--” Crowley felt like he needed more answers but was too tired to think of what to ask.

“Sounds fine,”

“Great! I’ll be back in a sec-- the on call doctor just wants to chat with you before you leave; make sure everything’s good, ‘kay?” 

* * *

“Not that you aren’t welcome, but I’m fine.”

Crowley didn’t answer, he just hovered.

“I’ve told you before. Whatever it is, there’s no point in talking to a fucking doctor. Leave me alone .”

_ A ripping, tearing. _

“So you didn’t ask them anything about--”

“Ah, f-- no, I didn’t say anything. Jesus Christ, don’t you get it?”

_ Clatter, clatter… the sound of sharp little feet and claws and teeth. _

Aziraphale’s voice sounded far harsher than he liked. He hated being a dick-- and what was worse was that Crowley didn’t look like he had a sarcastic comeback, or even like he was pissed off. He looked chastened, like he was hurt by the harsh words, but felt he’d deserved it. An apology-- he, Jesus , he couldn’t act like this to Crowley. He reached for a plastic cup perched on a rolling cart.

_ Rip...scratch... _

His words died in his throat against a red-hot poker strike of pain-- and he howled. The sound of his own voice caused him pain, so it came out in a hiss. He went stiff. Crowley had dashed over and he wanted to say something, asking for help, but all he could manage was a set of huffed yelps through clenched teeth.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck-- okay. Ah--” Crowley hesitated and stopped himself from reaching out; Aziraphale had winced in anticipation of pain. “Okay, okay. I’m not gonna move-- okay, what-- do you need--”

_ A tearing sound-- like a filthy claw through fabric and flesh _ . Through the haze of pain, Aziraphale tried to focus on the body in front of him. Crowley’s shirt was black, but-- was that blood?

He cried out again-- his body, wrenched by hot, sick, searing pain; from the top of his skull and down through every single vertebra, to the base of his spine.

“Fuck fuck-- I said  _ no _ \--” but his voice was ripped from him, dissolved into a useless puff of desperate air.

There was a clattering of metal and plastic as the rolling tray was shoved aside by a doctor rushing in-- Aziraphale was stuck with a syringe in the right arm, and everything calmed down. He closed his eyes.

* * *

Crowley stared, dumbfounded; as Aziraphale was whisked off to another room somewhere. They said they had to get his blood pressure down; get him on fluids. Someone mentioned prednisone, codeine; a bunch of _ -tex _ this an  _ -elene _ that.

He hadn’t noticed Anathema head off, presumably for a coffee or something, but he was alone next to the now-empty daybed.

“Ow--” he touched his chest. It stung. It stung a bit before, but now it really stung.

And it was sticky. He pulled his hand away, and the papillary ridges on his hands and whorls on his fingers were all delineated in scarlet. He was distantly aware that he was still bleeding-- that the blood was trickling down over his belly under his shirt.

He stared at his hand.

* * *

Hot, black coffee firmly in hand, Anathema sat in the mostly-deserted cafeteria of the hospital-- feet propped on the melamine tabletop, her phone pressed against her ear.

“Hey sweetheart-- listen. Shit’s going haywire. I think we need to get the ritual done here at the hospital. I’ll come get you.”

She sipped the coffee, listening to sleepy grumbling on the other end of the line. She could imagine Newt rubbing at his eyes with his thumbs, clearing the sleep from the corners; mousy hair all mussed, a bit greasy at the roots.

Newt muttered in the affirmative.

“Love you.”

* * *

"Can you tell us a little bit more about what happened to him? He came in with a pretty nasty head wound, but not much else. Now I'm seeing signs of exposure--"

Crowley spoke to the doctor-- a harried looking woman; tall, with dark brown hair in ringlets. It was clear she’d been on her feet for hours, but she was a knockout all the same. 

"He took off. I reported him missing- I called the cops. We found him knocked out like that, at the church; but I'm pretty sure he was just... I don't know. Wandering." 

"Can you tell me about his mental state?"

Crowley hung his head and smirked. “I really- I don't want to get him sectioned or anything.” 

“Ha- well, unless he's a danger to himself or others, nothing you tell me leaves this room, alright? It's important, and maybe not for the reasons you think.”

Crowley sighed. It was a strange feeling, letting another person into this cloistered little world that only he and Aziraphale had shared for months. He felt like he was dragging a part of Aziraphale kicking and screaming into the muted fluorescent lights of the sanitized hospital. He glanced down at his chest, straining his eyes, and looked at the gauze bandages taped to his freshly-stitched wounds.

“For a while now, he's been- I'd say ‘out of it’. Afraid, if I had to guess. Like the end was coming.” He shook his head at the questions about illicit drugs, or if Aziraphale had been drinking. He hadn't had time to drink; they hadn't been away from each other much at all, and besides; it just wasn't like Aziraphale.

“And these?” the doctor asked, gesturing to the covered gouges. “Did he-”

“No. No, that's- listen. He never did anything violent. He didn't do this. But you have to listen to me, he's not insane-- I don’t know how to put this without freaking you out..”

“Just try me.”

“He's convinced he’s, ah--” Crowley decided he needed to lie, at least a little. He cleared his throat. “Right when he had his first pain...thing. He kind of… well, he joked about being possessed. I didn't believe him, obviously. But he told me once that he’d--” He searched for a good way to word this. “--That he’d make a deal with the Devil to prevent his illness.”

The doctor pulled over a wheeled stool and perched on it. She held a clipboard against her belly and scratched notes into it.

“And did he ever mention what sort of illness?”

“No- no,” Frowning, Crowley ran through all the times Aziraphale had finally broken down and given him tiny crumbs; little morsels of the truth of what he was running from. “I remember him saying that it killed his father at one point, but he wouldn't talk about it. Before his sort of- breakdown or depression or whatever it was, he would have these attacks. His back would seize really-- and I mean really-- fucking badly, but I think he mostly hid it from me. He’d move very carefully; his walk was stiff, and he just- he looked like he was in bad pain. It wasn’t even like when my uncle had his back out.”

“So, not all the time-”

“Nah. it would really creep up on him.

With the promise that she’d return before long-- with antibiotics and a follow up; to check if the numbing agent had worn off-- and a few other things that Crowley didn’t pay much attention to, the doctor got up and left Crowley alone in the examination room on the thin bed.

* * *

“Hey Aziraphale, My name is Newt.”

Aziraphale lay back in a large recliner, covered in coats. He thought this had to be the most idiotic thing he had ever been roped into, but didn’t much care to fight back. He’d scared Crowley off. His brother wasn’t there; he hadn’t bothered to call him or ask someone to. Nothing really mattered, and he was so tired.

Nothing worked. Nothing worked and nothing mattered. A gunshot blast to the demon’s face had done nothing, and all that had happened since he had said no was the return of pain upon pain upon pain--

“I want you to take some deep breaths. Concentrate on my voice…”

_ Fine. I could use a nap. _

_ _

* * *

Crowley dozed off, and was awoken by the sensation of a presence in the room with him.

A woman-- the shape of a woman-- entered the room on nothing more than a breeze.

She held a large knife, handle gripped in her fist so the blade faced away from her; ready to slash. He couldn't quite see her face-- or he couldn't quite get his mind to identify, or wrap itself around. He got the impression of stained white robes-- or a dress; with a paneled and gathered bodice, but it was brown with dried blood and god knew what else. Talons grew at the ends of her fingers rather than nails, and they were long and ragged. Where eyes should be were dark pits.

She took a step.

* * *

With a stepladder purloined from an unlocked janitor’s cupboard, Anathema stretched herself as tall as he could to slap some tape over the smoke detector and hoped it wouldn’t backfire. Then, she shoved the same step-ladder up against the door.

“I would like you to imagine a place…” Newt’s voice was remarkably calming, and Anathema found himself wishing he was the one on the receiving end; letting that voice worm its way into his subconscious, guiding him…

Anathema shook her head to clear it and dug out the bundle of herbs from one deep pocket, and a handful of candles from the other. These, she placed in a circle around Aziraphale-- who had started to snore.

“...Can you tell me what she’s doing? Is she telling you anything, Aziraphale?”

With a lighter decorated with cats and tacos on a bed of stars, Anathema lit the various ignitible objects and walked around the reclined form widdershins, chanting all the while under her breath.

Aziraphale began to speak. He sounded young, scared, and far away.

“No, she left. She’s not here-- or, she’s here, but--”

* * *

Crowley tried to crawl backwards on the bed; the light blankets doing nothing to pin him down-- but he found he was quite unable to move except perhaps to clench his muscles and writhe. Hot, smoky, gritty air stuck itself to his sweaty face and he fought to take a breath.

With every step she seemed to struggle. her silence matched Crowley's.

The eyes were fixed upon him and she walked slowly on.

The closer she got, the more the impression became that of an insect. Her eyes weren’t pits-- but rather compound eyes nested in the sockets. Where nasty burned out, matted hair had been-- now there were scales and antennae.

* * *

“...your power word, Aziraphale--” Newt snapped his fingers. “Hope,” he said, forcefully. “You are high above the earth…”

Anathema kept chanting, walking the burning herbs around Aziraphale, letting them waft over his prone body and wishing she’d shoved a sweater under the door. Focus.

Aziraphale shook his head and whimpered.

“...and you can--” snap “-- have Hope for the future, and that gives us the strength to find and eradicate this evil--” snap “--and have hope so that you can heal--”

* * *

There was a smell Crowley couldn’t place-- something dark and earthy-- and her image flickered violently before him. In the same instant, she hissed; loud, and enraged. The scent became stronger.

Wrath flowed from her body in waves and burned brighter with every second that passed, until she seemed to glow with it. Red, pulsating light spread across the floor, along with an unnaturally hot blast of air.

Her gnarled appendage grasped the blade’s handle ever tighter.

The incense wafted in like her anger-- but it was stronger; gentler.

* * *

“No, no-- I can see her, and she’s… she’s taking what’s hers--” Aziraphale shook his head in earnest, hot tears falling from his eyes.

“That’s alright, Aziraphale. Listen to me--”

“No, I can’t, no--”

A gust of wind blew through the window and extinguished the candles and the herbs. Anathema cursed under his breath and hurried to relight the herbs, shielding them with his body.

* * *

With every gust she hissed and spit-- and flickered out-- and the less corporeal she seemed to Crowley-- but every time she seemed to be bested, she would hiss and snarl, and the fuming and spitting only bolstered her.

He couldn’t see-- flicker-- he couldn’t, but he could feel-- a breath and the smell of rotting flesh and rotting wood-- click, click, rip--

Crowley’s eyes returned to him. He wished they hadn’t.

The creature loomed over his bed and crossed her arm over her chest in preparation to strike.

He now saw that she was in pain-- and her vision gone.

The blade was rusty and pocked; as if her impotence only made her more dangerous to him. Crowley's heart was in his throat and it pounded and skipped and his chest fluttered with panic.

Still immobilized, his body burned with acid from seizing muscles and his lungs filled with the airless, acrid smoke that built all around him.

She sniffed the air, her arm still raised- and moved to strike.

Crowley shouted, voice cracking to life at long last. The blade sped toward him, her darting, sightless eyes searching for the body she couldn't see but could sense all the same.

* * *

“No-- she’s got-- she’s got Crowley.”

“Aziraphale, listen to me--” that calming voice resonated, filling the room, but still Aziraphale fought against it, thrashing though he was still unconscious--

“I can’t do this. Just-- she can have me. I fucked it up, and now-- She’ll keep coming, and coming, and--” he grimaced, sobbing full-on and speaking through clenched teeth. “She can have me, body and soul, if the alternative--”

Anathema turned on her heel. SHe stormed toward Aziraphale’s body, stepping over the candles. She sprinkled the smoldering embers of burnt ash across his torso and pulled back the jackets, slamming her hand against Aziraphale’s sternum, wrenching a shout from his lips.

_ “Exorcizamus omnis immundus spiritus _

_ Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, _

_ Infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, _

_ Omnis and congregatio secta diabolica. _

_ Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, dominates, _

_ Ut coven tuam secura tibi libertate servire facias, _

_ Te rogamus, audi nos!” _

* * *

Crowley braced himself for the fall- the painless slice that would wait a beat before the blood rushed out and the stinging, searing pain would come.

It never did.

Crowley opened his eyes. All he saw was thick, black smoke all around him, but the creature was gone.

* * *

The door slammed open and the smoke cleared.

Standing there like a crazed escapee from one of their haunted asylum excursions, was Aziraphale-- his head bandaged; his eyes sunken and dark, and a huge wool overcoat covering his thin body. His feet were bare.

“Crowley!”

* * *

Everything tasted like codeine. How could he have forgotten what happened the last time he took it-- a broken tooth at age seven.

Disgusting.

Bitter like bile salts. That's what he tasted, after all. His liver hated the stuff.

They were on their way home. Finally. The men they’d met had sent them off with their blessing and made Aziraphale to promise to check in.

He wasn’t sure if Crowley saying “home” in reference to the both of him made him feel like he was going to be sick, or like he could fly.

After-- after everything, Aziraphale had been given a rush appointment for an MRI. The mobile MRI just so happened to be at the hospital for an elderly patient or two, and they squeezed him in.

_ “Just as I suspected. It’s a condition called Ankylosing Spondylitis…” _

“Can you pull over please?" he asked as calmly as he could. They were speeding down the highway but managed to find a shoulder in record time. Aziraphale swung the door open and flew down the berm to his knees. A familiar clenching in his left side, like someone squeezing a tube of caulking. It wasn't his stomach. Then it was working its way up through his stomach and up and out. Fuck-- it didn't even have the decency to be hot like vomit. He sputtered and coughed and turned away but couldn't quite stand yet, so he knelt a foot closer to the car.

_ “It’s not a death-sentence, but it’s hard to manage. I’m a little concerned about what I’m seeing on the SI joint here, see--” _

He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to see anything.

_ “Aziraphale, this is a good thing. Trust me. I’ll give you a referral to a specialist, and he can work out some treatment options with you. I know it’s a lot right now. But you clearly have people that care about you. A lot of people live with Ankylosing now-- I think you’d be a good candidate for biologics-- c’mon. Look at me. A diagnosis is half the battle--” _

Crowley's warm hand on his shoulder shocked him from his reverie, his form blocking the blinding afternoon sun. The cold clenching had subsided and now his spine felt raw and vulnerable but it was a far cry from the wincing agony from before. The drugs hadn’t been in his system long-- and he’d probably manage to expel what had yet to be absorbed-- but it was better than nothing. Hot tears pricked his eyes and he crouched in place, arms wrapped ‘round his chest.

* * *

Aziraphale sighed, sitting on the side of the bed and hanging his head, too tired to mind the heavy pressure of elbows pressing into thigh bones. A dip in the mattress behind him signalled Crowley's return from the shower-- smelling of clean skin rather than three days of searching for answers. A soft palm brushed over Aziraphale's naked shoulders; a body edging closer on knees, and a hand on his forearm sliding over to take his hand. He was so tired. "Any better?" Crowley spoke in no more than a whisper. A pause. A rush of air left Aziraphale's lungs. "No. A little--" he shook his head, defeated. "No. It's everywhere, and it won't let me sleep."

He tossed his phone away from him.

[query: ankylosing spondylitis]

[...+ treatment options]

[...+ -”yoga”] 

[...+ -”idiots who want to blame everything on vaccines”]

…

…

...

[ankylosing spondylitis… and life expectancy]

[ankylosing spondylitis… and depression] [...+ mania]

Crowley molded himself over Aziraphale's rounded back and rested his head on the curve of his shoulder-- arm drawn in by a hungry chest, hands clinging to a lifeline. The pain that had wrenched at him all night-- his chest like a cage for a crazed animal. A pain personified-- animus? animal?-- that began to riot non-stop, claws hooked into his ribs from four directions and trying to wrench them inward every time he tried to breathe. For now, the pain was gone. but it left a sort of raw quality which grated against any real feeling of relief. Now, it felt as though the agonized creature was merely sedated. "I'm not leaving." Crowley spoke into his flesh, voice muffled. The sound wave vibrated through the bone cage below.

* * *

A formal date felt a little odd after so long-- well. Getting handsy in a car after a takeaway run, or fucking in the upstairs of some old heap that Crowley found deeply god-damned creepy--

It was some kind of romantic, he supposed.

Nevertheless, he hated being late. He would not ruin this. He was elated, he was giddy; he was glad he hadn’t eaten anything because he just might be sick. He bounded up the stairs-- the elevator of Aziraphale’s building broken yet again-- and took a half second to catch his breath.

He rapped on the door, and Aziraphale called for him to come in. Aziraphale was sitting on his cheap boxy sofa, reading a paper. His feet were bare, one sitting silent on the fuzzy brown carpeting, the other tapping a staccato on the yellow linoleum.

“Aziraphale, hey,” Crowley said, out of breath. “I-- I was hoping it would be okay--” he rushed through the sentence, but Aziraphale was standing up and walking slowly towards him. Crowley stopped mid-sentence, all at once flustered by the sight of Aziraphale; like he was back in the afterglow of that same morning. 

“Hey.” “Hey, ” said Aziraphale.. He smiled and reached out laconically for Crowley’s face and, cupping a cheek in his palm, ducked his head to kiss Crowley.

“Mmm-- wait,” Crowley muttered reluctantly drawing back slightly, “I gotta-- we have a reservation--”

“It’s just quarter after--” 

“Oh, really?” Crowley said, against Aziraphale’ lips. Relaxing, he leaned into his frame, their bodies melting together, Crowley’s hip bones sharp, digging just below Aziraphale’s. “Then I guess I rushed for no reason.”

“Maybe not--” 

Crowley felt himself flush.

He leaned his head back against the door, exposing his neck; meeting Aziraphale’ gaze in question. Aziraphale didn’t answer, but engulfed Crowley; taking his head in his hands and kissing him. Crowley sank back against the door, wrapping his hands around Aziraphale’ back.

“You’re dusty.”

“Oh, yuck. Sorry.” He pulled away, but they stayed joined at the hip, Aziraphale’s hand running up and down his bare arms. “I found a great second-hand book shop, and--”

“Why are you all… awkward all of a sudden? Besides, my shower here is big enough for two...”

Chuckling, Crowley gave him a half-smile. Aziraphale kissed him lightly on the nose, then on the mouth; seeking and heavy. The urgency between them grew frantic in a second; Aziraphale gripping Crowley’s arms at the elbow, and Crowley’s hands on Aziraphale’ hips, holding them together and thrusting against Aziraphale, seeking friction. He slid his cold hands under the waistband of Aziraphale’ briefs inside his jeans and massaged his cheeks as he rocked against Aziraphale.

Aziraphale huffed, and grumbled as he peeled himself away, leading him toward the washroom.

“And were you planning to take me?” Aziraphale asked, feigning offence.

Crowley kicked off his shoes, hardly stopping to do so. Aziraphale shut the door behind them and locked it. It was small; just a bathtub with a shower and shower curtain, vanity, and toilet. Aziraphale shoved up against Crowley, his palms flat on the door behind Crowley’s ears. He toed Crowley’s feet apart and rolled his crotch up against Crowley’s, trapping his cock without fail and grinding up and down. Crowley stifled a cry and stuttered.

“Ah-- Jesus Christ. I-- of course, I--” he felt himself flush from embarrassment. Aziraphale backed away and they both stripped, and Crowley reached in to turn the shower head to the side and on to warm it up.

Aziraphale ran a hand up and down Crowley’s ass, just grazing a finger between them.

“That’s alright,'' Aziraphale replied, nipping Crowley’s neck. 

They stepped into the tub and closed the curtains.

The water was a little too hot, so Crowley turned it down. Aziraphale dropped to his knees in front of him and grasped Crowley’s dick. The sudden contact made Crowley jump, but Aziraphale steadied him with his left hand on his upper thigh. He popped the head down and into his mouth. Crowley huffed out a little breath as Aziraphale’ hand worked the shaft, and his head back and forth, covering him in saliva. The water dripped down and into Aziraphale’ face, his hair in his eyes, and he held his breath for a few minutes before he had to back off.

“Holy shit,” Crowley gasped. He put his hand against Aziraphale’ forehead and brushed his hair back.

As Aziraphale got his breath and went back to take him in again, Crowley took a half step back and kept his hand on Aziraphale’ head to keep the water off. Aziraphale worked him up and down, sucking his cheeks in. He gently twisted his hand from side to side. Tipping his head back to the tiled wall, Crowley breathed out as evenly as possible, trying not to shout. Aziraphale sucked harder still, his hand leaving its post and coming to cup Crowley’s sac and brush the hint of his fingertip near his hole. He pumped him, and laved his tongue in the slit, spitting on it and taking him back down as deep as possible.

There, Crowley had to put a fist in his mouth to stifle his cry; and Aziraphale encouraged him with the hand back on his hip to fuck his mouth. He thrust in and out as shallow as possible, but Aziraphale bobbed up and down, taking him deeper; whatever he couldn’t he fisted in his hand.

Crowley came and bit down on the flesh of his arm, a high sound still coming through his chest. His orgasm washed over him, knees shaking as his cock pulsed and dribbled come onto Aziraphale’ tongue. Aziraphale popped off for a second to catch his breath and Crowley’s come dripped out past his lips, and he sucked Crowley back down again, sucking hard and Crowley kept coming past the point he thought he would, Aziraphale sucking the last of it out of him until he shuddered with overstimulation.

Crowley leaned back on the tile wall. He tapped at Aziraphale’ shoulder, trying to get him to stand up. Aziraphale stood and Crowley pulled him into a kiss, humming lazily at the taste on Aziraphale’ tongue.

“I have to ask you something,” he said. His strength was gone, but he fisted Aziraphale with a confident grip with one hand, pulling him in by the waist with the other. Aziraphale thrust up into the contact with desperation, panting little noises against Crowley’s mouth until he came on Crowley’s stomach.

The water was fast becoming tepid, so they fought through the haze and Aziraphale washed Crowley’s hair with cheap shampoo and soaped them both down.

“Me first,” Aziraphale replied; voice like syrup. “Move in with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no concrit please. 
> 
> i feel like this might need an epilogue...
> 
> as always, thank you for reading. please leave a comment and kudos if you feel compelled to do so, and come and yell at me over on my [tumblr](https://www.lovelybydecay.tumblr.com).


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